Visitations
by salanaland
Summary: Vignettes inspired by Riona's story Visitors. Contains time travel, Kenways being emotionally distressed and distressing, Shay and Aveline getting together, dinosaurs, Desmond seeing far too much of far too many people, and so forth.
1. 1735, December 3

"Wake up, Father, wake _up_!" Haytham's voice was insistent in his father's ear, and Edward rolled over drowsily.

He'd been dreaming he was sailing to meet all his old friends: Mary, Thatch, Ben, even Jack and Vane and hapless Stede. They were going to have a grand party, Mary was telling him, with barrels of rum for everyone, and then they were going to sit around and braid Thatch's beard with pretty ribbons. Edward didn't want to miss out on the fun. "Go tell your mother."

"I _can't,_ Father, wake up." Edward realized that Haytham's voice was not high-pitched and childlike, but adult. So: Haytham visiting from the future, visible and tangible only to him.

"Haytham, son, I'm tired. What hour of the morning is it?" Edward rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"The most important one. You must hurry, get your sword." Haytham cocked his head. "Listen, they just killed Thatch."

"Thatch?" Edward asked, confused.

"The _dog_ ," was Haytham's exasperated reply.

"I have-"

"There's five of them," his son interrupted, his words brisk and clipped. "They've killed the guards and they're trying to get your book. I'm afraid that's my fault; I let slip to Birch where it might be. You had better wake Mother, they'll try to kill her too." He paused a moment, his face contorted oddly.

"Birch? What? Tessa?" Edward was already pulling on his trousers. "I wish you could help me."

"I will," promised Haytham, then vanished before his father could ask about his stricken expression.


	2. 1721, April 27

Edward stared blearily at his visitor. "Feel like getting me out of this?" he croaked. He'd been gibbeted again, burning in the sun, shivering all night, and the less said about his bladder, the better.

It was the man with the hat, whose name and face remained a mystery to Edward. "I've no need to," and he pointed to a rustling patch of vegetation.

After being freed, and given his Hidden Blades, Edward didn't see his visitor again until he'd spoken some few words over the gibbeted skeleton wrapped in garish tatters that had been Jack Rackham. "What is your aim here?" the hat man asked, with his posh London accent.

"To rescue Mary and Anne," Edward answered, tightening a buckle on his blade.

"Who are they to you?"

"Two of my three living friends," Edward said, defensively. Who was this man to assume and presume? "And near their terms, if I'm counting right."

"Carry on, then." He gestured, blade extended, to an angry guard. Edward killed the guard, killed the quartet following, but his strength was beginning to flag. He entered the prison itself, barely able to raise his arms.

Then, disoriented, he saw himself, a blur of steel and rags, dispatch the next guards efficiently. Startled, he just gawped at his visitor, wearing his body, killing as easily as breathing. His style was different-much less ball-kicking, for one-yet Edward could not but be thankful for the man who had stepped in when his own strength faltered.

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Mary's cell door, and he could tell by the blood and gore inside that something was terribly wrong. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard a whisper of "Good luck," as he broke in.

After Ah Tabai rowed Anne off, Edward stared dully at their retreating boat. "She was an Assassin," he told the visitor. It was inconsequential, now, but the only comment he could muster from the devastation he felt.

"That's no cause to kill a woman in such a fashion." He sounded affronted, the man in the hat.

"You're not one, too?"

He was quiet for so long that Edward thought he'd disappeared. "I am sometimes mistaken for one."

"So'm I." He heaved a sigh. "Think I'll kill 'em all."

"It won't make up for your friend."

"It's something to do. Doesn't have to be sensible."


	3. 2012

Desmond rubbed his stinging jaw as he stomped off to a corner to sulk. The corner was occupied, by probably the person he least wanted to see.

"You!"

"Indeed."

"You're a Templar!"

Haytham frowned. "You are perspicacious."

"How could I be descended from another Templar?!" Desmond raged.

A half-shrug, mocking in understatement. "I believe you saw more of that than either of us wanted you to-"

"I didn't know you were a Templar!"

"I didn't know you were my descendant." Haytham crossed his arms across his chest. "So many assassins visiting, and so few that I could kill."

"Life is so hard."

"On a related note, that man is your father?"

Desmond nodded. "William Miles. The _Mentor_."

Haytham rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "My descendant as well? A pity."

"A pity?"

"I'd kill him for his parenting alone, otherwise."


	4. 1726

Shay was unprepared to find Edward in such a situation, up to the elbows in-literally-shit, and whistling happily. "This is the child everyone tells me you're so proud of?"

Edward looked up at him, grinned, and got squirted in the face for his troubles. "Little bugger! Look, Shay, isn't he amazing? Those tiny hands, and those fat little legs-well, hold on, his legs look pretty bad right now." He returned to his work, attempting to make his son presentable.

Shay politely looked away, especially since the boy seemed to be staring at him. "If this is a bad time, I'll go wait outside the door-"

"Nah, nah, don't worry about it. Look! All clean! Yes you are, little man, you're all clean for our guest!" Edward continued in this vein for a while as he buttoned the infant back into his gown. "Isn't he something?"

Shay smiled a little. "Aye, that he is, a handsome little lad."

"Did you hear that, Haytham? You're handsome, yes you are!" Luckily Edward was looking into baby Haytham's eyes at that moment, and didn't see Shay nearly choke and die of an apoplexy. _This_ was _Haytham_? His Grand Master was the son of a pirate-not just any pirate, but _Edward?_ Edward who loved to hang out on the _Morrigan_ and stand behind Gist, repeating everything Shay's first mate said in an extra-pompous voice and with a stupid face?

It shocked Shay-he knew that his superior was the same as any other man in many ways, of course he'd been a baby once, of course he had bodily functions, of course he'd been with a woman (scarring Desmond for life, apparently), but Shay still revered him, didn't dwell on such mundane things in connection with _Haytham Kenway_. Yet here he was, pissing in his father's face like any other baby boy, giggling now that he was clean and amused by his father's goofy expressions.

Shay had nothing to say, so he just stared. Edward looked up and took pity on him. "Don't worry, man, one day you'll have one of your own and you'll see what it's like." He smiled easily, as if he'd forgotten that he was an Assassin and Shay a Templar, that they should have no connection, no point of reference to build a friendship on, no wish for the friendship in the first place. "I swear, it's almost like he can see you fellows! He was staring at Connor just last week. Strange, huh?"

"Strange indeed."


	5. 18-something

His bones ached with the weight of him, the muscle and the height of him, and he was no longer limber and flexible as he had been. But he was still the Mentor, and he still lived at the Homestead, alone now for many years. Like Achilles, he'd moved into a bedroom on the first floor, so he only had a couple of steps to hobble down to sit in the morning sunshine.

The turkeys were impatiently begging for the corn he always kept in his pocket for them when he saw another man sitting beside him-another old man, black-robed. He'd rarely seen him this old, but he'd have known him anywhere, from his eyes and his hand. "Altaïr."

"Connor."

Another visitor appeared on his left, less wizened, but with hair of pure white. "Ezio?"

"The very same."

They sat for some time, talking of their youth and feeding the turkeys. Altaïr's English was much better than it used to be (he gave his wife all the credit for her patient instruction) and Ezio, too, had picked up the language, but the odd bit of Arabic or Italian or Kanien'keha slipped in. They'd been friends now for so long that they could understand each other no matter the language.

One by one, the others slipped in, and Connor didn't even complain when his father and grandfather, the youngest-looking of the group save Desmond, elbowed Altaïr and Ezio out of the way to sit right beside him on the bench.

It was a fine fall day, just a hint of chill in the air that caught at Connor's chest with every breath. Ezio was telling Edward about some courtesans he'd known many years ago, and Shay was asking Aveline about her family. Desmond was cracking jokes that nobody else entirely understood, and Altaïr smiled benevolently at them all.

"I fear this is the last time I will see you all," Connor confides to his father.

"Great Assassins always die sitting up," Edward tells him breezily. "When they die of natural causes, that is. You two, Mary, um..."

"Achilles," Connor murmurs.

Shay laughs. "I haven't seen that happen much."

"You are not a natural cause," Aveline teases.

Haytham puts his arm around Connor's shoulders. "I should have seen you come into the world," he tells him, and he's the last one to wink out, an hour later, when the turkeys come into Connor's lap to peck the last of the corn from his pockets.


	6. 1991

Edward saw the little boy perched on the boulder, and almost called him Connor, he was so dark. But no, this was Desmond, deeply tanned from what looked like a summer's worth of sun, and Edward felt like thrashing Desmond's parents for letting him run around on his own at such a tender age. "Desmond!" he called. "That rock's no good for sitting."

Desmond looked at him, then away, firmly. "Mom says you guys are imaginary friends," he informed Edward.

"What's an imaginary friend?" Edward asked, approaching the boulder cautiously.

"Not real."

"I'm as real as you."

"That's what Ratonhnhake:ton said."

"Ra-donk-a-what?" Edward realized a moment too late that that must be Connor's real name. "Oh, right, Ra-Ra-"

Desmond giggled. "Ratonhnhake:ton, silly. He's real, I know he is! And he said that this land all really belongs to the Indians, and his mother told him not to talk to white men digging." He pointed to a cluster of equipment and white people on the facing hillside, right where Desmond could spy on them.

"What are they doing down there?" Edward wondered.

"Digging up a dinosaur," was Desmond's prompt answer. "A really important one."

"What's a dinosaur?" Edward asked, just as the gravel under the boulder gave way. Leaping into Desmond's body, he jumped for a ledge he'd seen, clinging to it with Desmond's fingers until the gravel slide subsided. Then, letting a shaking Desmond have his own body back, Edward shepherded him back down the hill to safety.

Desmond didn't tell his parents about any more of his 'imaginary' friends, and Edward never found out about dinosaurs.

 **A/N: The dinosaur is Sue the** ** _T. rex_** **, of course.**


	7. 1777

"Stop staring," Aveline chided. "You act as if you've never seen silk stockings before."

Shay blushed deeply and turned to face the wall of her dressing chamber. "I have, just, you... usually, with skirts covering them."

She laughed. "I'm only dressing up to go kill a man."

"Well, that puts a damper on the mood."

"I wasn't aware there was a mood." She began to tighten her corset with practiced fingers. At least she'd managed to have one made that she could handle the lacing of without assistance.

"My lady Aveline, you can't help but cause a mood in any man around you. I'm just lucky enough not to be killed for it."

She smiled at his turned back, then shimmied into her gown, the black and red, and for a fleeting moment she wished he could escort her to the party. They'd make such a fetching couple in their matching clothes-

No. She had a job to do, and no doubt a job he'd interfere with, if he could. Any thoughts otherwise were an unwelcome distraction. "All right, you can look," she chirped, getting into character as she began arranging her hair.

Shay looked as if he'd been run over by a carriage in the street, and that let Aveline know she'd done her job well. Now for her target...


	8. 1731

Connor found himself in a dark hallway, rather musty if truth be told. He recognized it as Edward's London house, and looked around for him, finding instead a small boy looking hopefully at him. "Are you one of Father's friends?"

He knelt down to the boy's level, offering a slight smile. "I am."

The boy clapped with delight, then grabbed Connor's hand, ignoring the involuntary flinch. "Have you seen my sister's guinea pig?" He began tugging Connor, leading him through sumptuous hallways. "I've always wanted to have a friend of my own," he chattered. "It's just me and Jenny, Mother and Father. I wanted to play with the other children, but they're not allowed to play with me. Look!" He let go of Connor's hand to clutch at a cage of wood and wire, and when he smiled with delight, Connor was unsurprised to recognize his father by his eyes.

The guinea pig was a fat, fluffy little creature, given to squealing loudly when Haytham addressed it. This delighted him to no end, and he and Connor spent some time with the furry little lump, until Jenny stormed into her room, threatening her brother with her best tapestry needle, and he took off.

Haytham was alone by the time he returned to his back hallway, but he hummed cheerfully to himself as he picked up his toy soldiers. He'd made a friend of his own.


	9. 1761 and 1778

Almost everyone reacted as expected.

Altaïr was the first to find out, in the hazy afterglow of their third assignation, in a smugglers' den out in the Bayou. He merely smiled wryly at them, then left the little hut and busied himself outside until he disappeared. Shay vanished soon afterwards, leaving Aveline to clean up and straighten her clothes, a smile sneaking out when she wasn't paying attention.

Edward saw them next, in the Morrigan's cabin, and cheered them on. Ezio feigned heartbreak. Desmond covered his eyes and whispered, "Why me? Why a cave? Why did you have to screw in a cave?" Connor stalked as far away as he could manage, looking disapproving.

Haytham-in the flesh-surprised Shay by bodily hauling him from the dense brush where he and Aveline had been kissing and touching. "What do you think you're doing, Shay? She's an Assassin! Do you know what this means?"

Shay's mouth worked for a minute, and he tried to discreetly wipe away excess saliva. "I do, actually."

"No, you don't!" His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "She's the stepdaughter of Madeleine de L'Isle in New Orleans. Remember? The Chichen Itza project?"

Shay blinked. "All right..."

"No, it's not all right. _Right now_ , she's a child, whom her stepmother hopes to bring into the Templar Order. It's bad enough that I know she'll fail. But now, I can't even kill-"

Shay realized that he had extended his blades. "She's-"

Haytham snapped, "She's unacceptably close to an important Templar, and now a problem that I can't even take care of." Shay tried not to roll his eyes at the hypocrisy. As if Haytham was going to kill his own "problem".

"Take care of?" Aveline asked, strolling over to them. It had taken some minutes to rearrange her corset and dress.

Haytham bristled. "I had planned to kill you, in time."

She smiled coolly. " _If_ you could." She pulled a leaf out of her hair, gracefully. "I only stay my blade from _you_ as a favor to a friend."

He scoffed. "What friend?" She eyed him for a moment, then smiled, but said nothing. Haytham's impatience got the better of him; he truly had no desire to keep the two of them from the carnal activities they so obviously wished to return to. "... Very well, then. A truce?"

She considered him, unconsciously leaning into Shay's shoulder. "You make truces with Assassins?" She meant, _other than your father and your son._

Haytham snorted. "I have made one with Altaïr. Implausible as I might once have thought that."

She smiled her charming smile and extended her hand daintily. "A truce, then."

Shay hadn't realized, but he'd placed his hand protectively behind her back at some point. He could smell her, sweat and leather and steel and the sweet scent of her hair, and he realized he wanted nothing more than to take her back into hiding and undo all that careful corset re-lacing. He looked up from his contemplation of what he could see of her corset, blushing as he met Haytham's eyes. "Grand Master, I-"

"Shay. I will expect you in an hour, _properly attired_ and ready for Templar business." Haytham turned on his heel and stalked off, pretending he didn't see exactly where Shay's hand had grasped Aveline to pull her close.


	10. 1785

Edward found himself staring at a small table, lit by a single candle. On one side sat Connor, on the other an elderly woman who had obviously been very beautiful once. Both stared assiduously at their plates as they mechanically consumed a simple, but delicious-looking, supper. Snow whirled outside the windows, rendering the light dreary and strained. Edward could tell this was not a pleasant meal, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw Connor's attention to himself.

"He would have been sixty," the woman said eventually. Connor made a pained face. "Father's been dead fifty years," she added gloomily. Connor didn't reply for some minutes, so she continued. "Do you know, Father used to have these... guests, I think he called them? Nobody else could see them. But one of them told him I needed a map of a palace in Istanbul, and gave him one." She fiddled with her utensils. "And... I did need it. Or... when I was... imprisoned there... the map was correct."

She lifted her eyes to Connor's impassive face, and tears glistened on her cheeks. "Father never went to Turkey. How could he possibly know? How could anyone know, then, where I would end up, that I might need to know this?"

Edward nearly fell when Connor replied, "I do not know, Aunt Jenny." This, this was Edward's beautiful daughter? He'd gotten the map from Ezio, who'd been so insistent that he needed to pass it on to her, so Edward had taken pen to paper and drawn what Ezio showed him. What was Jenny doing there, why had she been imprisoned? He staggered, feeling like he'd taken a punch to the guts.

Jenny's voice was bitter as she continued, "I used to think he made up his guests. Now I wonder why they came to him, but never came to me." She tore her bread into many small pieces. "It seemed a game that he and Haytham played, but when Haytham lay sick in bed after I killed Birch, he talked to Father constantly. Now I wonder if Father had become his guest." She looked up into Connor's eyes. "And, I believe, he talked to you, though you were at the time but a babe in arms."

Connor sighed heavily. "What do you wish me to say, Aunt Jenny? All is as you have surmised. And Grandfather sits with us even now."

Jenny nearly dropped the cup she had raised to drink from. "Truly?"

Connor nodded. "And I know of no other who knows about the visitors without being able to see them. You are unique."

She scoffed. "Much good it does me. I would rather have my father and brother than be party to their secret."

And just like that, Edward was in his own house again, crying silently about the suffering that would turn his spoilt, willful daughter into the embittered woman he'd seen.


	11. 1777, again

The camp had been right on top of an alligator nest, practically, and Aveline wondered dimly how none of the damn fools had been eaten. She herself had been taken by surprise; having cleared out the camp, she had made for her canoe, only to literally trip over the mother alligator. Aveline had prevailed, but at a cost, and her arm had been badly bitten. The jagged tear went through flesh and muscle, and she was growing weak from blood loss. Staggering towards the rude hut whose occupants she had just killed, she collapsed heavily against it.

What a time for a visitor, especially a Templar, especially _this_ Templar. Shay crouched over her, eyebrows drawn together in concern. "Aveline? Can you hear me?"

" _Oui_ , I hear you..." she murmured, eyes fluttering closed.

"This won't do," he insisted, and she was about to argue, only to find herself thrown from her body, watching herself rummage in the minimal supplies.

Shay felt wretched possessing Aveline's body, but she was close to death and-he wasn't sure, it wasn't like he'd never killed Assassins before, but he didn't want to watch her bleed out from some kind of animal bite. His (her?) head pounded as he found a needle and grimy thread, and he cursed at the filth of it all, but it was better than nothing.

Her shredded shirt offered no protection to her arm and kept getting in his way, so he unwound the belts and scarves from her (his) waist, fumbled with buckles, and finally managed to pull the bloodied garment off, leaving her in just-

 _oh_

Women's underthings were not something he was entirely expert on, but he was glad that she had something that served to, ah, rein things in. Otherwise he would have...would have _seen_...it didn't matter anyway, he was only trying to help save her life, forcing the (dammit, rusty) needle through her skin to draw the tattered edges of flesh together. He thought the blood was flowing a little slower, hopefully not from nearing death. He found a broken tooth in the wound, and yanked it out. Selecting a scarf that had been around her waist, he wrapped the wound, securing it with a belt. And, exhausted, he nearly fell out of her body.

Aveline had watched him with a small smile curving her lips. She'd not expected this kind of solicitude, certainly not from a Templar. But Shay was _different_ and she was touched, gazing up into his face as he checked her pulse. She knew it was weak, but from the relief on his face, strong enough. She reached for his hand, squeezing it as he sat beside her, and she lay down, head in his lap, holding her crudely but effectively doctored arm out to the side as she abruptly fell asleep.


	12. 1761

"So, Shay, your next target is..." Haytham scowled. "Pay attention!"

"I am, Grand Master," Shay insisted, but his eyes kept flicking to the corner of his cabin.

"I don't care if all six of our visitors are dancing naked over there-"

Shay snickered. "Pardon me, sir. I can't imagine Altaïr or Connor would ever do that. Or you," he added quickly.

Haytham rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously I would not. And I agree that my son, at least, would have the self-respect-that is not the point, however."

Shay tried, he valiantly tried, not to burst into guffaws. "I'm very sorry, sir. She's just-"

Haytham groaned. "It's Aveline, is it?"

Shay nodded, trying to quell his smile. "Aye, sir, she's-"

"No details, please. I know she is quite...forward with you, but I would prefer not to be a part of-"

"No, sir," and he couldn't help but let out an odd, snorting laugh. "She's not-I mean-" It got to be too much, and he collapsed with laughter.

"What?" Haytham nearly yelled.

"Your...your hat, sir. On top of your hat." Tears were streaming down his cheeks, now, from repressing guffaws. "It looks absurd."

Haytham sighed, reached up, and removed Aveline's hat from atop his, then addressed her, still not turning around. "You would think a skilled Assassin like yourself would not resort to such childish pranks."

Her voice was mirthful behind him. "Are you so afraid of me that you can't even bear the sight of me fully clothed?"

Haytham turned around and held out her hat. "One never knows, _does_ one, when you're in such close proximity to your lover."

She smiled and cast her eyes to Shay-he had fallen out of his chair and was holding his stomach-and her smile became tender enough that Haytham felt embarrassed to have witnessed it. "I am not so horrible as all that, now am I?" she challenged, taking her hat. "Besides, we have a truce, don't we, for the sake of mutual friends and...those we love."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, yes."

"So, I can hardly stab you or do anything other than these pranks. And you are fun to trick."

"Fun?"

"Yes, Haytham, fun...the enjoyment you find in activities other than killing." She helped Shay up into his chair, then trailed her fingers from his shoulder, down his arm, to clasp his hand. "If you cannot recover from being cast off by _your_ lover and take another, I understand, but surely you find other activities entertaining? Board games, card games, horse racing? You could learn to climb trees. Connor could teach you how to hunt, if you asked. Or Edward, or Shay."

Shay nodded. "Aye, sir, it'd make a welcome change from the war." He smiled soppily up at Aveline.

"I do such things," Haytham insisted stiffly. "I enjoy reading, and I play draughts and fanorona."

"That's a good start. What about music? Or enjoying good food?"

"I fail to see how this has any bearing on you playing games with hats, Aveline."

She smiled gently. "In my ordinary life, I generally must kill every Templar I meet. This is...a space where I can do otherwise." She brought Shay's hand to her mouth and kissed it. "But of course, I cannot treat you as I treat him. And you are so... _stiff_."

Shay muttered, "I'll show you stiff, love."

Aveline chuckled and kissed the top of his head. "Not in the same way, as far as I know. It...I know you have suffered, Haytham, but you ought to have joy in your life as well. Even the simple joy of making yourself a fool for the amusement of others."

Haytham rolled his eyes. "I'll consider it."

She smiled. "Do so. It will only benefit you."

"Certainly this is no time to discuss Templar affairs with Shay," Haytham announced. "So I will leave the two of you to your _fun_."

Aveline inclined her head in thanks, and Shay stuttered, "I-sir, I'll-I promise-"

"I once absconded into the forest for three weeks, Shay. A few hours is not as bad, I suppose." Haytham sighed. "I could stand to work on my fanorona game."


	13. Chapter 13: 1757

The damned pigeon had flown off, and night was falling. Shay was some miles inland, and he knew wolves hunted in this area. Best not to risk it, and he knew he'd seen a hunter's platform in a tree a few hundred feet back. Finding the tree, he climbed to the platform and took stock.

He had some dried meat and an apple, which would do him for dinner; he'd certainly gone hungrier. The main problem was that he couldn't build a fire up here. He'd had worse nights, though, and at least it wasn't snowing. Wrapping himself in his coat, he curled up on his side and quickly fell asleep, sparing only a moment to regret that he no longer wore a hood.

He woke to see his breath misting over a thin layer of snow. He himself was warm enough, and comfortable, and he could feel someone pressed against his back, an arm around him, under a layer of heavy cloth.

He desperately hoped it was Ezio. Or Edward. Someone. Someone who would cuddle anyone. He lifted the white and blue cloth to look at the hand.

Maybe it was Connor. Connor, his hands much smaller than usual and slightly too dark. Connor, inexplicably willing to spoon a Templar. Connor, putting a hat under his head to keep him from the cold platform.

No, of course not. Of _course_ it was Aveline softly sighing into his ear, Aveline's stray braid pressed against his cheek, Aveline's hat warming his ear and face. It couldn't possibly be anyone less embarrassing, like _Haytham_ , even.

But it _was_ Connor's coat covering the two of them, Connor's hood keeping the snow off his hair, and that meant Connor was somewhere nearby. Connor had seen them in this compromising position. Had he assumed they were lovers?

Shay felt his cheeks flush, then realized that he had a bit of an embarrassing problem. To be sure, it was entirely natural for a man to wake in such a state, and it wasn't _necessarily_ because of Aveline's proximity, he told himself. The fact of the matter, however, was that her hand was drifting down his body, and he _could not_ let her touch him _there,_ or else he'd have a much bigger-er, it would be harder- _more difficult_ to maintain his composure.

There was nothing for it. He'd have to hold her errant hand and hope his problem sorted itself out. Otherwise, he'd have to find a hiding place and... no, mustn't think that, he firmly reprimanded his mind, which was making helpful suggestions for fantasies that would assist greatly. He had far too much to do to indulge himself. Plus, how could he possibly offer her such offense, even in his own mind, in return for her kindness?

He clasped her hand, working his fingers through hers, and she squeezed tightly, giving a tiny sigh of contentment ( _that she'd never have if she were awake and in my arms,_ he thought) and throwing one leg over his.

Well.

He was certainly warm now, his blood hot in his veins, and not simply from shared body heat. If he woke her, she'd _know_ that he knew she'd held him so intimately. He couldn't cause that kind of mortification for her. Best to feign sleep until she woke of her own accord and could put her limbs to rights. So he determinedly closed his eyes.

Behind him, Aveline's lips curled in a smile and she pulled him closer.

On a nearby branch, Connor waited impatiently for them to either get up, or give in to their obvious urges. He could only hope that they would be warm enough to cast aside his coat, or else that he'd go back to his own time and be spared the whole thing.


	14. Chapter 14: 2012

Desmond busied himself with the in-flight magazine, trying to ignore the Assassin/Templar Mile High Club meeting in the bathroom a few rows behind him. He really wished he could stop thinking things like, _I can barely fit in there_ _ **alone**_ _,_ or _Wonder what position they're using,_ or _I bet she's standing on the toilet,_ or _Hope they locked their blades in place before they started_. Such thoughts were wrong, and wicked, and dammit, she was screaming this time. He shrunk down in his seat, reading about headphones so expensive you could probably run a drug cartel for less.

They kept going.

In frustration, Desmond pulled out his ipod and began to make a new playlist. He added all the cheesy love songs that Shaun had downloaded from his own computer as a prank. (Rebecca's music collection was much better, a fact that eluded Shaun.) Smirking, he saved the playlist. It sounded like a rom-com set in a supermarket. Next time he saw Aveline or Shay, they were going to _suffer_. (As if airplane bathrooms weren't suffering enough.)

* * *

Once upon a time, Desmond's life had made sense. Now he couldn't even illegally watch an episode of Walking Dead without his pirate ancestor blubbering all over him when the girls started singing.

* * *

Desmond was on a strict ration of Animus sessions, although he routinely ignored that, intent on working through Connor's memories in time to prevent the end of the world. But sometimes it got to be too much, and he needed to relieve the pressure before, as Shaun put it, "his itty bitty brain went squirting out his abnormally shaped ears." He discovered Rebecca's Star Wars movie collection one such night, and settled in for the classic trilogy.

Halfway through _The Empire Strikes Back,_ he became aware that Haytham was watching the movie as well. He braced himself for a flood of questions, but his ancestor seemed to take the onscreen action at face value. Until a certain scene, when Desmond was embarrassed to discover that he was descended from someone who talked through movies.

"Obviously the hero's father is still alive," Haytham said snidely.

"Is that so?" Desmond asked, annoyed.

"Yes, he's the man in the mask. They're on opposite sides and our hero is going to be crushed when he finds out. His whole world will be shaken."

Desmond gritted his teeth. "I don't remember you talking this much in the theater last time."

"Of course not; I was assassinating someone."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Almost wish you would, so I could watch in peace."

"I'm willing to bet the hero's mother died horribly when he was very young. And he'll reach some kind of peace with his father, but," his lip curled, "his father will die, and he'll feel simply _awful_ about it, but it'll be too late then, won't it?"

"Stop talking about yourself already."

They watched in silence until the end of the movie.

"I told you so."

"Shut up."

"I bet the man in the mask dies in the next one."

"Go fuck yourself. Just don't make me watch."

* * *

Desmond stared down at Agaté's body. "Seriously? That's what he was all about? What a... what a second-rate Snape."

Aveline had no idea what he meant, but she was warmed; he was angry on her behalf and that's what counted.

It almost made up for the music he'd made her endure.

* * *

Desmond introduced Connor to YouTube, which was a mistake that led to four hours of his short life being spent watching televised lacrosse and adorable puppies.

* * *

Steering the _Aquila_ was hard enough. Steering it with Haytham backseat driving Connor was even worse. When Haytham also visited and started backseat driving Desmond, that was simply intolerable.

It also gave Rebecca conniption fits. "Where's this second track of Haytham _coming_ from? Is your DNA crimped or something, Desmond? I'm going to check for T-T sequences real quick."

"There's nothing wrong with my DNA!" he insisted.

"Shall I list what's wrong with your piloting?" Haytham asked, loud and clear over the Animus speakers.

"He can't even be saying anything now!" she practically wailed. "You're not even hooked up! What's going on?"

Desmond couldn't wait for the inevitable day when Connor would kill his father. He'd never wanted to kill a Templar so badly. Haytham was currently describing every sandbar Desmond had run into, every broadside that missed completely, every time he'd lowered the sails when he meant to raise them, and that time the _Aquila_ had done a vertical 360 off a rogue wave. (Desmond was pretty sure that was an Animus physics glitch. Although it was pretty cool.)

As Haytham was describing the humiliating time Desmond had desynchronized by accidentally having Connor climb in front of a firing cannon, Desmond hooked his foot around the power cord and yanked sharply. What a relief to be the only one that could hear his ancestor's complaints.

" _Really_ , Desmond?" his father asked, disappointed. "Right in front of the cannon? Are you _trying_ to fail?"

... except, of course, for _that_ ancestor.

* * *

"So this is New Orleans," Desmond said, crouched beside Aveline on the rooftop. "It's not Mardi Gras, is it?"

She looked at him oddly. "No, why do you ask?"

"In my time, Mardi Gras in New Orleans is supposed to be amazing. A huge parade, debauchery, awesome food, the world's biggest party. I've never been." He sounded wistful. "Tell you what, after the world is saved and everything, I'm gonna go to New Orleans for Mardi Gras 2013. And you have to visit me then!"

She smiled just as if she hadn't seen him die the day before. "I'll make sure of it."

* * *

"Who ordered all the Italian porn?" Rebecca asked, bringing back supplies from the nearby town. "Guys, we're supposed to be hiding here. This was waiting at the town post office."

"Would you believe it was Ezio?" Desmond asked tiredly.

"Oh yes, Desmond, we would totally believe that. And you know what else? That's not at all a sign that you're going crazy," Shaun sniped.

"Ezio is a perve," Desmond insisted. "Amazon doesn't deliver to the Renaissance so I have to be his porn mule."

"Just don't conceal it in your bodily cavities," Rebecca advised.


	15. Chapter 15: 1777

"Seventeen... eighteen..."

Haytham was attempting to count banknotes, when a laughing female voice chimed in, "Thirty-four, one, twelve, twenty..."

Sighing, he gathered the money into a pile and locked it up. "Hello, Aveline."

She practically giggled. "Bonjour, Haytham. Don't let me stop you."

He harrumphed. "You know full well what you're doing."

She just grinned.

When he went to meet with Charles Lee, he had to struggle to keep a straight face as Aveline made rude gestures and held up her fingers behind Lee's head like rabbit ears. "Sir?" Lee asked, concerned. "Are you well?"

"Sir," Aveline imitated, "would you like a foot rub or some sexual favors?"

"Everything is... is well, Charles." Haytham rubbed the bridge of his nose and cursed all Assassins in his mind.

"You look pained, sir."

"Pained, yet delectable," Aveline added, making exaggerated kissing faces.

"I simply have a headache," Haytham tried to explain, face contorted with the effort of ignoring Aveline. "I find I am incapable of concentrating on anything today, Charles, particularly Templar business."

Aveline drowned out the answer with, "Perhaps my Pomeranians will help! Cute little puppies!"

Haytham made a show of rubbing his ear. "I'm sorry, Charles, I didn't catch that."

This time, Aveline called out, "Perhaps I should go find a small child and beat him, especially if he looks just like you!"

Haytham sighed heavily. "Charles, can we discuss this later?" He glowered at Aveline, and, once Lee had left, he hissed, "That was extremely tawdry."

"Three grown men abusing an innocent child is far more than tawdry," was her chilly reply.

"Is this how an Assassin should behave?"

"Everything is permitted, Haytham."

"Even my father never behaved so!"

Aveline smiled. "I heard him, once, trading inappropriate jokes with another man in the company of a woman..."

"Yes, well, that was when he was merely a pirate, was it not?"

"And his Assassin friend once threatened to unman him, was that inappropriate?"

Haytham rubbed his temples and decided to change the subject. "You know, Shay is off on a mission. You could find him and make all the improper comments you like..."

She smiled tenderly and chuckled, and for a moment, he was reminded of Ziio. But that wasn't surprising: Aveline had the same boldness, a woman comfortable in herself, powerful in a man's world, quick-witted and sharp-tongued, loyal to her people and fiercely protective of them. And he saw, for a moment, what Shay must see in this Assassin woman, her loyalties and motivations just the other side of the fence from his, a worthy equal. It took his breath away, and stabbed more painfully than any blade.

For Shay had his Aveline, warm and loving in his arms whenever they met, and Haytham would never again see Ziio, hear her, be insulted by her, win back her respect or her trust. All that had gone up in flames; all his hopes of reconciliation were naught but ash on the wind, and Ziio lived only in his memories. The cruelty quite took his breath away, and he buried his face in his hands, unwilling to allow the enemy to see the pain etched there.

A light touch on his shoulder made him look up to see Aveline leaning over him with sympathetic eyes. He cleared his throat and tried to recover. "Yes, as I said, perhaps you would find Shay more...entertaining."

She quirked a smile, scar tugging at her lips. "You are funny enough."

He scowled. "I was not put on this Earth to amuse you."

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned on his desk. "And yet, you succeed admirably."

"Tell me, what do you even see in him?" he asked curiously. "An Assassin loving a Templar is not unheard of, but nor is it common."

She shrugged. "He is a good man. Circumstances have changed his loyalties, but his beliefs remain the same. He is, in his own way, as unfit a Templar as you."

Haytham blinked. "I do not consider myself unfit as a Templar."

"But you are. You helped kill a Grand Master. You are the son of an Assassin and the father of an Assassin, the lover of an ally of the Assassins, and you work with your son...tell me, if remaining a Templar meant you had to kill your son, would you do so?"

"Of course!" he insisted, but she looked skeptical.

"I don't think you would. You have little enough family that you prize them above all else."

"That's absurd," he insisted. "I have no such sentimentality."

She smiled sadly. "You may think that if you like."

He scoffed. "Well, then, what if you had to kill Shay to remain an Assassin?"

Aveline looked steadily at him. "I wouldn't, unless I had reason to."

"He's a Templar; surely that's reason enough."

She shook her head. "Not where my heart is concerned."

Haytham scoffed. "Your love is stronger than your loyalty?"

Aveline shrugged. "Haytham, I know who I am, and I know what I stand for. I do not need the Assassins to know these things. I have learned these things through being an Assassin, but if I were no longer one, I would still know myself, and I would still fight injustice. And I would still love Shay, because he tries to help those who need it." Unconsciously, Haytham began to fiddle with his Templar ring. He was sure there was bait in her words, and he was determined not to rise to it. The silence stretched on uncomfortably until Aveline smiled at him. "I have noticed you stay your blade from the innocent, though you are perhaps overly free with it when it comes to your informants."

"That was the first thing my father taught me. I saw no reason to abandon it," he said stiffly.

She nodded. "And that is, I'm sure, one thing Ziio loved about you." She smiled gently. "You are still the man she loved."

He sighed heavily. "No, I'm not. I've been betrayed too often, and almost everyone I've trusted has proven themselves unworthy of that trust."

"Who remains, then? Who has not let you down?"

"Shay. Connor. The rest of you lot, actually, visitors."

Aveline grinned. "So, begin there, and figure out who you are, and what you believe."

Haytham scowled. "Only to have my ponderings cut short by my son's blade."

"Even so. Would you rather fall to his blade, or he fall to yours?"

Haytham had no answer, and the room was silent as she disappeared-she could control how long she visited, but only to some extent, and she obviously felt she'd made her point.

Had she?


	16. Chapter 16: 1776, June 27

Haytham sat in his quarters in Fort George, idly sharpening his left blade and pondering life. Connor was to be hanged tomorrow, an event that conflicted Haytham immensely. He knew Connor would survive, but was he to intervene? If he didn't, would his son still survive, and if he didn't, what was Haytham to make of visitations from a future Connor, his hair styled strangely in the fashion of his people?

His ruminations ceased abruptly as he heard a pathetic whimper and saw a miserable form appear on his bed. Shocked, Haytham recognized his father by hair and beard alone; his brawny frame was wasted, his skin scorched, his clothes stinking with old blood. Edward was rocking back and forth, muttering to himself in disbelief.

Haytham knew, because Shay had told him of doctoring Aveline's wound, that a visitor could take care of one they visited; he had no idea whether anything he was about to do would actually help his father. But he couldn't not try. He fetched bread and cheese, tea and a bottle of sweet wine, and ran a cool bath, which he practically had to drag his father into.

Clean, Edward was alarmingly gaunt, his ankles and wrists rubbed raw from shackles, a nasty puckered scar on his abdomen that still seemed to pain him. He was bright red over most of his exposed skin, which sloughed off in places, leaving oozing blisters. Haytham liberally covered his welts, sunburns, and that awful wound (much like the one he himself had, to be honest) with a soothing salve while Edward crammed food into his mouth.

"Who's done this to you?" Haytham asked, once most of the food was gone.

"Templars," Edward promptly replied. "They want the Observatory, keep asking where it is."

"Why not just tell them?" Haytham practically wailed. Nothing could be worth whatever they were doing to his father. He didn't even care which Templars they were, or what the Observatory was, or why they wanted it. It was intolerable to see his father like this.

"They'll probably hang me then." Edward finished the wine and sleepily struggled into the clean clothes. "You're a good fellow, Hat Man. I know I'll be back there in a few minutes, and I don't know if I'm even here or dreaming, but thank you for this respite. Maybe someone will come for Mary and she'll help me escape, or maybe Adéwalé-" Edward vanished just in time not to see Haytham flinch guiltily at the mention of Adéwalé.

For a long time afterwards, well past midnight, Haytham sat staring pensively at nothing. Around three in the morning, he murmured, "Adéwalé..." then, a few minutes later, "Shay..." and then, half an hour later, "Connor..." Rising from his chair, he found a crate he'd accidentally taken from the Morrigan some years back and repeatedly forgotten to return. Rummaging through it, he found Shay's old dark Assassin outfit, and put it on to check the fit. A bit tight, but it would do. Throwing knives were in another crate, and he spent a good hour flinging them across his home until he could sit in his now-grimy bathtub and hit a string by the front door.

Wait, if his bathtub was this filthy, did that mean Edward was clean, was full, was a little tipsy, was covered in salve, was wearing the shirt Haytham had ineptly repaired after the sleeve was half-torn off? He didn't know, and even though he knew that his father would-somehow-escape this situation and become the man Haytham had known, his heart still ached, and it drove him to practice harder with the knives.

Towards morning, he took a nap in the chair, then woke, dressed in Shay's clothes, and went to the hanging. Nobody would notice a man in a dark hood, caught in the throng. And if-as he suspected-Connor's archer couldn't cut the rope with a mere arrow, why, a throwing knife was more than capable of doing so.


	17. Chapter 17: 1787

Haytham, visiting, stood by Shay, squinting at Connor and Aveline. "Am I to congratulate you?" he asked quietly.

Shay chuckled, smiling from ear to ear. "Aye, Master Kenway, though I don't know what she sees in a man like me."

Haytham stared at him oddly. "Well, far better you than one who knows nothing of Assassins and Templars. At least neither of you will be offended by the other coming home covered in blood."

"I suppose that's so. Connor married this pretty girl, a complete innocent, and then she found out."

" _What_? Connor- _married_?"

"Not anymore. Seems she can't handle marriage to an Assassin-where are you going?"

Haytham stormed down the dock and pushed Connor in the chest. "What on Earth were you thinking, son?"

Connor could only gape at him. Aveline interposed herself. "Haytham, what are you on about?"

Haytham pointed at her and Shay, telling Connor, " _They_ made better choices than this. _Your mother and I_ were better together-do you know, your mother would have been _happy_ if I was an Assassin? She sent me away because I was a _Templar_ , not because of-how could you marry someone who knows nothing of your life?"

Shay, Aveline, and Connor all stared at him. "You're making no sense at all, Master Kenway," Shay said slowly.

"What about the children, Connor, what if you were _attacked_ , what if they had to defend themselves? I can't have this happening to my grandchild-what _my_ mother-no!"

Connor glowered. "I knew you would disapprove of her, Father."

Haytham threw his hands into the air. "Yes, but-that Assassin woman who fancies you, why not her? Why not Aveline?"

"Hey!" Aveline and Shay protested in unison.

"Other than the obvious, of course. But honestly-pick an Assassin, pick an Assassin ally, pick a Templar, but by everything you believe, pick someone who _knows_ you go around murdering people for a cause! You-you know, it's my father's fault. Yes. You made the same mistake he did. I always thought you were the most sensible besides-Jenny-" His eyes went wide and he stared as his sister hobbled over with a cane. "She's so _old_..."

"Aunt Jenny," Connor tried to recover the conversation. "You've met Aveline, of course, and this is Shay."

"He's a Templar, but let's not hold that against him," Aveline added flippantly.

"I'll hold you against me," Shay mock-threatened Aveline, then shook Jenny's hand. "I was a friend of your brother's, Miss...?"

"Scott, Jennifer Scott, but you must call me Jenny if you were my brother's friend." She smiled and looked back and forth at Aveline and Shay. "You make a handsome couple, and you're sure to have a lovely child."

"Thank you," Aveline whispered, blushing, one hand on her belly and the other twining her fingers with Shay's.

Jenny turned to Connor. "Now, why couldn't you find a nice _Templar_ like she did, if you didn't like any of the Assassin women?"

" _See_?!" Haytham practically shrieked. "Even Jenny agrees!"

"I would think, Aunt Jenny, that you would be the _last_ person to advocate marrying a Templar," Connor said stiffly.

She dismissed this objection with a wave of her hand. "I said a _nice_ one. Not a piece of horse shit like Birch."

Shay coughed in surprise, and Aveline pounded him on the back. "Jenny doesn't believe in mincing words."

"I'm too old," she agreed. "I've outlived both parents, my stepmother, and my younger brother. I've seen things that would make your bits shrivel, and I've survived things that would make your stomach turn, and if I want to call something shit, I will."

Shay grinned. "I like you, Jenny."

She eyed him. "I hope I like you. Otherwise I may decide you're not good enough for Aveline."

Aveline rolled her eyes tolerantly. "He is. Trust me on this."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"Aunt Jenny," Connor tried to regain the conversation, "let us bring our guests inside."

"I'd make you escort me to the house," Jenny told Shay, "but Aveline has greater need of your help just now."

"I'm not made of glass!" she protested.

Haytham watched them for a long time-Jenny's steps were slow, and Aveline kept having to stop to catch her breath-one hand half-outstretched to them until long after they had vanished into the manor.


	18. Chapter 18: Abstergo, 2014

"Melanie, I need to borrow one of your numbskulls."

"Hello to you too, Violet."

"I mean it. I was checking in on one of my team, the girl looking for anything we could use as a sequel to Liberation? She found some weird stuff."

"Why can't she do it?"

"It's another ancestor of Sample One. She's working on Aveline, I need someone new for this guy."

"What's so interesting about him?"

"What isn't? Look, I'm pulling up the footage. See there, they meet just once, in 1777, and then ten years later he shows up on her doorstep."

"Okay, so?"

"Well, in '77, she's an Assassin and he's a Templar. But in '87, they haven't met in ten years, and the first thing she does is pull him inside and start sucking his face."

"Um..."

"Then it goes totally Hot Coffee, we don't need that kind of controversy. But I looked ahead a little, it looks like they get married and have some kids."

"That won't play too well if she becomes a housewife."

"Yeah, but she doesn't. And also, see, it's scandalous. Remember Gérald, the wimp from Liberation?"

"Oh yeah, I'm totally shipping him with Aveline."

"Yeah, well, you were right, he marries her. In fact, they're still married when Templar Dude shows up. Not for long, though, Gérald's really sick and I think he dies shortly after."

"Did this guy kill him?"

"Don't think so, it seems like cancer. Ugh, Aveline had a memory of looking at the stuff, too. Anyway, she gets pregnant right before her husband dies."

"One last gasp?"

"Uh, not where the cancer was, it's got to be Templar Dude's kid. Like, they were doing it nonstop practically. I didn't look too much further, but she eventually marries the dude. Then her memories end, so then they must have the kid that's the ancestor."

"That's all...really sordid."

"I actually think it'd make a great love story if we play it right. But anyway, Otso Berg saw it and he got really excited."

"Really? What a creep, spying on Aveline getting some."

"No, seems he has a man crush on Templar Dude. Shay or something. He said we needed to look into his memories."

"What's he done other than knock up Aveline?"

"Well, I looked into it real quick, and it seems like he's friends with Haytham Kenway, you know, the Grand Master from Sample 17? Maybe we could make a recruitment piece, combine the Kenway bits from 17 and some of this guy. Or we could develop the Aveline-as-Templar storyline with this love story. We'd have to work at it a lot, though, because it seems like she stayed active as an Assassin even while she was with this guy. There's one part where she's hiding sleep darts in her nursing bra or whatever you'd call it back then."

"Did he know?"

"I think so. He was doing a lot of Templar stuff, too, rebuilding buildings and things. Weird pairing. But I totally ship it, now, they way they look at each other is just sickening."

"I think it's sweet. Even though she was a misguided Assassin, their love transcends that."

"That'd probably play okay. But you see why I need a person just to focus on this. My one girl is busy with the Aveline memories."

"All right, we'll get someone to help you with this one. I've got the payroll for it."

"Thanks! Good to know you're not as stupid as you act, Melanie."


	19. Chapter 19: 1787

Aveline was sitting on the front porch of the Homestead, feeding little Philippe, when Shay appeared. Since she had seen him and Connor walking down to the village to repair the church, and the Shay before her was dark-haired, had no wrinkles, and wore no wedding ring, she knew he was visiting from quite far in the past.

This would be an awkward visit.

"Morning, Miss Aveline," he said.

 _Oh dear_.

"What is your understanding of where we are?" she asked, not really expecting him to know the password.

"The Homestead. I wasn't aware that you were ever here, though."

"Connor has need of friends about him just now. Of course, he would never admit it." She shifted her son to the other breast, trying not to laugh at the way Shay tried not to stare. "And I am not yet ready to travel." Her voice was tender, contented, as she looked down at her sweet little boy. She rather thought he'd end up with his father's dark eyes, rather than hazel like hers.

But there was no need to tell the young Templar in front of her that this was his child. He still had more than two decades of pain and self-inflicted heartache to get through before they could love one another in person, before their son, before anything.

"Is Achilles here?" Shay asked, tense.

She shook her head. "Not for some years, now. You needn't worry." He relaxed somewhat, and reluctantly acquiesced to her gestured invitation to sit beside her. She adjusted her shoulders to give him a delightful view of her breasts, knowing as she did so that he'd attempt not to look overmuch, and fail. It was so fun to tease him sometimes.

"I'm not _worried_ ," he insisted. "I just don't think I can be anywhere near him without trying to kill him."

Philippe began to fall asleep, and Aveline settled him into his sling for a nap, a perfect excuse for wriggling closer to Shay, who was nearly frozen with alarm at her closeness. She'd almost forgotten how delightful this was, although back when she'd teased him like this all the time, she hadn't had the certainty she had now, that _her_ Shay would be back to take her in his arms, to kiss her lovingly, to make love to her when she healed from the baby.

He cleared his throat. "Who's the lucky fellow who's got such a lovely lady and marvelous little one?"

She chuckled. "My husband." _Who makes his own luck,_ she thought.

"Oh." He sounded so crushed that she almost told him the truth.

"He's a handsome older man," she decided on, "strong and kind and full of _understanding_... You'd like him."

"That's as may be." He was utterly forlorn.

"And he may not be an Assassin, but he would never willingly harm an innocent person."

Shay scoffed. "Even the Assassins don't keep to that, in my time."

She smiled tenderly. "Yet my husband does."

"But what's the point then, if he's no Assassin?"

Aveline frowned. "Anyone can uphold the first two tenets of the Creed. Hiding within the crowd is simple good sense. Staying your blade is necessary to be a good person."

Shay sighed. "I've killed many thousands of innocents, though. What could a few more change? Being an Assassin made me a monster. And Achilles knew it would happen. That blood's on his hands too."

She stared at him. "You left the Assassins because they didn't uphold our creed."

"Aye."

"If you break it, you are as guilty as they. If it is important, if it is worth leaving for, if it is worth killing for, then live by it."

He laughed sadly. "But I intend to compromise the Brotherhood."

"I do not hold you to the third tenet. But I do insist on the first, Shay Cormac. Otherwise you are but a killer."

He looked out over the woods and the river and the cliff, frowning. "So I'm to hold fast to the Creed _because_ I'm no Assassin anymore?"

"The alternative is hypocrisy, I think."

He risked a glance at her, and blushed deeply upon seeing her adjust her uncomfortably full bosom. "I see."

 _You'll see more than that someday,_ she thought with a smirk. "I know you are a good enough man to manage it."

"What about your fellow?"

"My husband is, too. He is a profoundly good man, otherwise our marriage would never work."

"Can it work? Assassin and... not Assassin?"

Aveline smiled. "It has worked so far. I am still madly in love with him." It was adorable how crushed he looked, and she wondered what had taken the two of them so long to consummate their blatantly obvious passion for each other.

He shifted uncomfortably. "Then I wish you all the best."

"Thank you. It means more than you know."

He smiled wanly and was gone.

* * *

Shay, _her_ Shay, came across the bridge not long after, sweating from hard work and nursing a split thumbnail. He bent down to kiss her, and she smiled up at him. "You'll never guess who visited me today."

"If I won't guess, perhaps you'll tell me."

"A handsome young Templar you might have known long ago."

"Oh, really? Should I be jealous?"

She giggled. "You should have seen your face when I kept mentioning my husband."

He laughed, and sat beside her, cradling Philippe in his sturdy arms. "I remember that visit. I was crushed, seeing you with what I thought was another man's child." He grinned. "Vicious Assassin, twisting the knife talking about marital bliss."

She smiled and stole a kiss. "Yes, I am so heartless as to crush that poor young fellow."

He returned the kiss and told her seriously, "I think you assassinated his hopes and dreams."

She squirmed into his lap and made herself comfortable in the circle of his arms, tucking the baby more securely into the sling. Thus situated, she pillowed her head on Shay's chest and dozed off, still exhausted from her difficult childbirth and the stress of becoming a mother. He curled his arms around the two of them, and drifted off himself.

* * *

Connor found them like that, a perfect little family asleep on his front porch, and he turned and headed back towards the inn. He could _not_ see them so happy. Not now. It tore at him in ways he could never articulate, would have ripped him apart even if he was not missing his wife and children. It cut him to the quick, tore at everything he was, from his earliest memories.

At the bridge he saw an unmistakable silhouette, and brushed past his visiting father without a word.

"Connor! Connor! Son, I must talk with you!" the apparition of Haytham called.

"Do not. No. Not now."

"Do not what, Connor? Make sense."

"Do not look for Shay, or Aveline. It-they-they are happy. They are a _family_." His father walked beside him, expression thoughtful as Connor continued, "They will _always_ be together."

"You can't know that," Haytham objected. "Many tragedies can befall even the most loving family."

Connor laughed, a short bark of a thing full of a bitterness Haytham didn't know his son could possess. "But some never will. Not them."

"I certainly hope not."

"They have what we could not."

"Are they your closest friends, Connor?"

"They are."

"Then be happy for them. I am."

Connor looked quizzically at his father. "Happy that one of your Templars has found love with an Assassin?"

Haytham shook his head. "Happy that my _friend_ has found love at all, with a woman who understands him. As I found love, briefly, with a woman who understood me." He smiled sadly. "I would wish for you to find the same sort of love, son, but I am content that you found love at all."

"You have changed, Father, you are not usually like this."

"Connor, I'm near the end of my life. I haven't seen you in two years, and I know the next time I see you will probably be the time that I fall to your blade. Those things tend to make a man philosophical."

"Do you dread your death?"

"No; mostly I wish it wouldn't happen. But if there is anything after, then perhaps I will see Ziio. Although probably not, as she was always a much better person than I." He sounded serene.

"You were angry when I fought you," Connor said, puzzled.

"Well, of course I was-will be. One can never truly prepare, can one? Time grows short, Connor, and I must leave soon. I can feel it."

"Will I see you again?"

"Oh, yes. I have seen you much older than this."

"Did you love her? My mother."

"More than almost anyone I've ever known, although I didn't realize it at the time."

"Who do you love more?"

"You know the answer, Connor. By now you must know." His father laughed a little.

"No, I insist. Who have you loved more than my mother?"

"Look into your own heart. Who do _you_ love more than _your_ wife? Who do you miss every day?"

Connor was silent, then he whispered, "My son. And the child that was not yet born."

Haytham nodded. "So you see." With that, he vanished.


	20. Chapter 20

Haytham dreamed of his father's murder for two nights in a row, afterwards. The third morning dawned bright and clear, and he was not in London.

The landscape was rocky, severe, but it had its own beauty. A small fire burned, and an old man sat before it, head bowed. Haytham looked at him inquisitively, and realized he was crying silently. "Excuse me, sir, do you know where we are?"

The old man raised his head. "Two days' ride from Masyaf," he said, his voice choked. It meant nothing to Haytham, but he'd been raised to be polite.

"Pardon me, but what's your name?"

As if from a great depth, the old man finally said, "Altair."

"That's an odd name."

"It's an Arabic name."

To his surprise, the boy grinned. "My name's Arabic, too! I'm Haytham."

Altair stared at him a moment. Yes, this was definitely Haytham, younger than he'd ever seen him before. "You should be getting home to your father, child."

"I have-my home burnt down," Haytham said, only the tiniest quaver in his voice. "And my only friend killed, and I saw my father..." he trailed off, eyes wide, and whispered, "and they took my sister..."

"I was hardly older than you when I lost my father," Altair told him. Why, though? Did he truly seek sympathy with the future Templar Grand Master?

"Was that why you were crying?" Haytham asked curiously.

"No," Altair sighed. "I was crying for my wife, and my son, and my friend." It was desolate, and he was profoundly lonely; he'd ridden through here with Maria just a handful of days ago, never thinking that soon he'd be traveling without his wife.

Haytham's eyes went wide. "Do you have anyone left?"

"My other son lives, still. And I suppose I at least have... visitors, like you."

Haytham nodded and patted Altair's arm. "You may call on me when you have need." He was so serious that Altair nearly laughed.

"I thank you, little eagle of London." He shook Haytham's small hand gravely. "Before you go, I must ask you this: did your father ever teach you whom not to kill?"

"Innocent people. Beggars and the like."

"That is the most important lesson you will ever learn, child. Others will teach you many things, but you must hold to that."

Haytham stared at him, practically hypnotized, and his voice was nearly inaudible. "I have killed a man." It was a confession, not a boast.

Altair was surprised; he'd been much older the first time he'd killed, as had all the other Assassins of his time and all the other visitors. He'd assumed that Haytham was, at the very least, a Templar before anyone fell to his blade. But here he was, ten years and a day old, trembling and staring. Altair's silence seemed to unnerve him, and he rushed on with, "He was going to-my mother-" then fell silent as Altair clasped his shoulder.

"You did well," the old Mentor murmured. He'd said the same to a hundred novices, and not meant it as strongly as for this little, lonely, grieving boy, his future enemy. "You protected your mother and yourself."

"Mother doesn't see it that way," Haytham said, his voice curiously flat. "She hasn't seen me since." His lip trembled.

Altair looked at him a moment, then pulled him into a stiff hug. Haytham resisted at first, then relaxed with a whimpered sigh. Altair remembered, when Sef was that age, holding his son tightly after a nightmare. Haytham was not too different in his arms from Sef, and was missing his father as Altair was missing his son. He could not tell whose tears on his shoulder were whose.

"Your father was a friend of mine," Altair told him quietly. It was true; as Edward had taken a greater interest in being an Assassin, he and Altair had grown closer, as close as a semi-reformed scoundrel and a legendary Mentor could be. "He would want me to help you."

He'd never thought of it that way, himself. But of course it was true, and he _had_ helped Haytham, saved his life more than once, without even realizing he would _want_ to have done so. He'd done it only because it served his purposes, but now he wished he'd seen this side of Haytham earlier, the vulnerable, brave child all alone in the world. If it had been him in this position, the Templar Order might have seemed like a lifeline, a home and family, something to believe in. Just like the boy Altair had found a home in the Assassin Brotherhood.

Haytham sniffled, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and made a visible effort to calm himself. "I thank you for your help," he said formally. "It is much appreciated."

Altair nodded gravely. Neither of them was warm or given to cuddling and the like. This was as much closeness as Haytham could tolerate, and if he actually needed more, there was nobody able to provide it. His father was dead, his sister captured, his mother lost in her own horror, and all he had was an old stranger from many years ago.

"What will become of me?" Haytham asked.

"I do not know the details, but you will become a great swordsman. You will rescue your sister and your father's killer will be brought to justice. You will be a brave leader, fearsome in war but seeking peace." What else could he tell the boy? "You will stay your blade from the innocent, free the enslaved, kill the wicked, and try to protect the weak."

Haytham nodded. "And you, what will you do now?"

Altair sighed. "I must kill a man I once called my brother, for he has my son's blood, my friend's blood, my wife's blood on his hands."

Haytham extended his hand solemnly to shake Altair's. "Good luck, Altair."

"And to you, Haytham. You have as hard a road ahead of you as I have behind me."

The boy nodded solemnly, and woke in the bed he'd slept in, not well, for the past two nights. There were more funerals today, he thought, and perhaps his mother would see him. And he had to train, didn't he, to become the swordsman the old man said he would be.

Centuries previously, that old man kicked sand over his fire, pulled up his hood, and began to plot how he would kill his former Brother.


	21. Chapter 21: 1780

Aveline's first thought, when she heard the knock on the door, was that Marie was astoundingly on time to go shopping for new dresses and shoes. Her second thought, when she opened the door, was that she was being visited. Her third thought, when Haytham failed to attack her, was that she should lighten the pressure of her hidden blades on his neck, because he was, after all, her friend's father. "What are you doing here?" she asked warily. "And how did you know where to find me?"

He raised his chin and somehow managed to look haughty, instead of like he was avoiding having his throat slit. "A Master Templar lived here for many years. Of course I know the address."

Aveline's fourth thought was sheer terror. "Is Shay well?" It wouldn't be fair, if something had happened to him. She'd only just recognized the feeling in her heart as love for him; she hadn't had a chance to see him again in person, after that one meeting in France before she'd... known him so well.

Haytham held up his hands as if to quell her fearful thoughts. "He is well, so far as I know. And I believe he has struck a truce with Connor."

Aveline retracted her blades and crossed her arms over her chest. "Then what brings you here, Haytham Kenway?"

He gestured into the doorway. "Shared interests that I'd rather not discuss outside." When she frowned, he sighed. "I _have_ been here before, you know."

She scowled. "When?"

He smiled tightly. "I remember a cat you used to have, an orange one. You and I ran up and down the hallway with a string, laughing at your cat skidding on the floor as she tried to catch it."

She stared at him. She'd thought it only her imagination, the little boy who was so taken with her cat. He'd told her that he only had a dog and a guinea pig at home. "What was her name?"

"Pierre. You thought she was male until she left kittens on your pillow."

"My stepmother could have told you all this."

"Your stepmother didn't know that we hid from her in a pile of leaves on the street, because she never found you until you went back in because you were hungry. May I come in?"

She wordlessly showed him to the parlor, but once he sat down and she sent the maid to go make him tea, she demanded, "What shared interests bring the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite to my house?"

"Curiosity, for one. I wished to meet in person the woman who has captured Shay Cormac's heart so fully."

She blushed, high up on her cheekbones. "Is that all?"

"I also wished to meet in person every visitor contemporaneous with me-this is a goal I believe you have now completed as well?"

She nodded. "Curiosity and a sense of completion, that is all?"

He leaned forward in his chair, all business. "Since you killed your stepmother, no single Templar has control of this area; instead, two men vie for supremacy."

She nodded. "I am aware of the situation."

He leaned back, nodding. "I am here to kill them both."

"Do you kill other Templars often?"

"As needed."

She smirked. "Careful. Some might take you for an Assassin."

"It's been known to happen."

She examined a conclusion that had popped into her head, debated saying something, finally settled on, "And was that how Connor came to be?"

His brief expression of shock was priceless, but the pain in his voice filled her with regret for her pointed words. "Even so."

She cleared her throat. "I assume you wish me to help you dispose of these two men. Why should I, though? What if I wish to kill the stronger of the two, leaving the weak one to mismanage my enemies and leave them vulnerable to my depredations?"

"France is, as I'm sure you noticed, racing towards a revolution of its own. Aside from their own personal shortcomings, which are severe, both of these men maintain ties to the French crown. Should the crown fall, they might make trouble, which would spread into the former colonies that I have worked _so_ hard to make peaceful and orderly."

"And your solution, instead?"

"A puppet of sorts; a Spanish merchant, who will not care one whit for unrest in France. You will approve; he is weak enough that you should retain your power over New Orleans."

"This is acceptable to you? An Assassin ascendant over your Templars?"

Haytham smirked. "An Assassin I can work with? Yes. An Assassin who will not kill Templars out of hand? Yes. An Assassin I couldn't kill anyway if I wish to retain the loyalty of the most useful man I have left? Obviously."

Aveline frowned in disbelief. "You think Shay's loyalty to your Order has been compromised by me?"

"I would not test it so grievously."

"You are an unexpectedly considerate man."

"I am a pragmatic man. Why oppose Assassins when I have Templars who need killing?"

"Of course that is your only aim."

"Naturally."

* * *

Two days later, they found themselves back to back in a dirty alleyway, his sword and her machete carving through some guards that she thought might have been avoided if they'd just gone around that one corner instead of the other. She realized that, one, there were two Templars in the world that she would trust at her back in a fight. And two, Haytham was both an amazingly good fighter and perfectly accommodating to her own style. It was a waste that Connor would not make peace with his father, and Aveline wished she could do something about it. But she'd seen Connor, face painted and head shaved, so remote from the Connor that was her friend, and she knew that he'd done _something_ he regretted furiously.

"Aveline!" snapped Haytham.

Her attention had wandered, and she got a slice across her arm for her troubles. She immobilized the man with her whip and hacked into his neck, took out the man behind him, and realized there was nobody standing but the two of them. "Are there more?"

They both scanned the nearby area, and Haytham shook his head. "None for now." He began to clean his sword while Aveline patched her wound.

She looked up, stared vacantly for about a second, then ducked her head, smiling. "Oh! You're still here!" The entire tone of her voice had changed.

"Where else would I have gone?" he asked peevishly.

"I don't know," she mumbled. "How long was I gone for?"

"A second, no more." He frowned and looked at her arm. The blood had fully clotted, and it was neatly stitched.

"Oh, but this is marvelous! I've never seen anyone when they left to go visiting before!" Her entire demeanor was markedly different, and Haytham guessed she'd been with Shay. "What did I look like?"

"You, ah, merely looked distracted for an instant." He cleared his throat and gestured to her arm. "Shay's handiwork, I presume?"

She nodded, her cheeks darkening with her blush. "I-often, after a fight, I find myself...with him..." She looked anywhere but at Haytham.

"Well...ah...he has deft hands."

"That he does."

"With a needle, I meant."

"Oh! Yes, of course."

Haytham cleared his throat. "I think we'd better get back to your house. This was obviously a dead end."

"Obviously." Her lips were swollen from kissing, and she looked quite disheveled. One of her braids was coming loose, her clothes were rumpled ( _as if they were on the floor for some time_ , Haytham tried not to think) and her eyes were a bit glassy. "I'm sorry, Haytham, I don't mean to be..." She gestured to her general disarray. "We're on a mission, after all."

"Well, you can't control when you leave," he allowed. "And obviously, when you have a chance to spend time with him..."

"And after fighting, I feel like an overwound clock," she tried to explain. "He-being with him-it helps."

He frowned. "I've never felt...like _that_ after a battle. When I was with Ziio, we were...at peace." He nodded reflectively. "It was actually quite nice, for those few weeks, not to have to kill anyone. She even did the hunting for our dinner."

Aveline looked up at him. "You never talk about her."

He shrugged. "I see no point in it. It's over. It's beyond over. And, given everything, perhaps I should regret it. But I honestly can't." He smirked. "Do try not to have children who wish to kill you. It's quite distressing."

"I'll keep that in mind, should I have the chance."


	22. Chapter 22

Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know if he could even begin to count how many things were wrong with his life. Some were things that he would have given anything for. His mother had been alive far longer than he knew she had been. Kanen'to:kon, too. The blades on his wrists had been his father's own, long-bladed, with bracers handmade from deerhide, and he was fairly sure that Templars never made their own blades (except for, possibly, Shay). What this meant, he could not say, but he cherished a foolish hope.

But he had watched his mother die, and he was certain he had watched her die before.

He was certain he had cut a short, stolen blade from his father's arm before killing him.

And he was certain he had never gone this long without a visitor from another time, not since he left his home to become an Assassin.

He would give anything to have Ezio refuse to respect his personal space, to listen to some wisdom from Altair, or even to hear his father carping in his ear. Or to pretend he couldn't see Shay and Aveline clutching at each other. Or to be confused by every other word out of Desmond's mouth. Or even to witness his grandfather vomiting drunkenly before passing out in a haystack.

And of course, there were the many things inherently wrong with the world, like Washington being a king, and the effects of the red willow tea, and the people who didn't know him but should have. And in some places, he'd have a jolt of a memory-killing Charles Lee, for example-that he knew was from his old life, from the world he used to inhabit.

One memory, though, was different: Desmond with his hand on the orb that took his life. The minute that memory filled his mind, Ratonhnhaké:ton began to hear whispers, just beyond the reach of hearing. And when he stood in Fort George and reached for the flashing thing only he could see, his memory spoke.

"Connor!"

It was entirely unlike the phantom of his mother that kept haunting him, telling him not to drink the tea again. This was a vision he was accustomed to, his father, calling him by a name that was not quite his.

"Father, what is happening?"

"I don't know! What's wrong with you-your eyes, Connor!"

"Do not criticize! You have no idea, Father, I need these powers to fight."

"Is it that tea thing?"

"How do you know of the red willow tea?"

Haytham came into sharper focus, and Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't believe his eyes. Instead of his usual coat, Haytham wore much the same clothing as he himself did, only with an eagle's beak on his hood instead of a wolf head. "Why do you think your mother warned you against it?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. "How are you, too, different? Where is everyone?"

Haytham waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, Altaïr put me into here with his Apple. He said you needed help and I was the only one who would work." He gestured to himself. "This, I suppose, is how I looked in this world..." he trailed off, looking wistfully at the beads and feathers on his arm. "I clearly made some different choices, which I expect are partly to blame for this situation."

"His Apple? What choices?"

Haytham smirked. "I stayed with your mother long enough to dress in the fashion of your people. Perhaps that changed the course of your life? I don't know." He looked around as if seeking hidden walls. "You are trapped, Connor, in a-a dream, I suppose, or a vision, created by an Apple of Eden."

"How do I get out?"

"You must seize the Apple yourself, Altaïr told me. You are strong enough to resist its command but you must fight to escape its trap."

"I cannot-!"

"I will help when I can. Now, you must _fly_."

Ratonhnhaké:ton realized that Bluecoats were approaching, and took wing to the roof of the building where his father had lived. He noticed, as he flew, another eagle beside him, and when he landed, Haytham crouched beside him.

"You see, son?" Haytham frowned. "It _will_ kill you, though. Weeks, perhaps, instead of the months it took for me. We must hurry."

"I am doomed to die?"

"We're all doomed to die, Connor, but if you do so in this Apple, this is what the world will become."

"I cannot believe...Washington..."

Haytham sighed. "I do so wish your mother had used the blade of her knife on him, not the handle. He's been such a thorn in our sides."

"My mother attacked him?"

"Yes, not long before-well, not long before you were conceived, in all honesty. She saved my life; Washington was set to shoot me." He smiled fondly at the memory. "There's none other like your mother, son." He patted Ratonhnhaké:ton on his fur-covered shoulder. "Recovered? Good. Let's go find you this Apple."


	23. Chapter 23: 1787

Aveline asked Shay, one afternoon en route from New Orleans to Davenport Homestead, "Do you see that fellow by the starboard cannon?"

He removed his hand from the wheel to wrap it around her waist, smiling foolishly with the delight of having his beloved near him. "Which fellow, love?"

She leaned into him, pulling his hand to rest on her side where he could feel a faint flutter-thump of their child kicking. "The elderly one, that looks like Haytham, but much thinner."

"Him? Why do you say he looks like Haytham?"

"Look at his chin, and his nose."

"Could be a coincidence."

She kissed him and waddled over to the man in question, and Shay could just hear their conversation. "Bonjour, and what's your name?"

The fellow was slow to reply, almost... _guarded_ , Shay would say. "Jacob." His voice was quiet and hoarse.

Aveline smiled her charming smile. "Jacob. Do you know, my husband and I were having a disagreement. I say you look like a man we used to know, and he says you don't. Do you by chance have any brothers?"

Jacob smiled bitterly. "I've no idea, madame. I'm the bastard son of a prisoner dead in childbirth."

She feigned shock. "But surely they have some idea who her lover was?"

He sighed. "I was reared by my mother's friend, and she had her suspicions, but I'd rather not share them, if it's all the same to you. I'd rather be no man's son than someone's poor bastard half-brother."

"Have you been sailing with my husband long?"

"No, madame, I joined the crew for this voyage, and I intend to join a crew up there once we land. No offense to your husband, of course."

"Why'd you pick me?" Shay called.

Jacob considered him at length. "I thought you might be kin to my adopted mother. She was a Cormac by birth, and always good to me. But you look nothing like her, so I don't know."

Aveline giggled. "What a coincidence, that you thought he was related to someone you know, and here we are thinking you're related to someone we know!"

He nodded. "Aye, 'tis truly strange. And now, madame, I really must finish fixing this cannon."

"All right, Jacob...what is your surname?"

He smirked. "Kidd."

Shay nearly let go of the wheel, because Edward was suddenly standing on the deck of the _Morrigan_ , staring at Jacob with pure shock on his face. He called up someone to take over for him, rushing to Aveline's side. "Are you faint, my dear?"

She made a big production of fanning herself. "Very, my love."

He took her arm and guided her to the cabin, jerking his chin for Edward to follow. Once the door was closed, Aveline sat at the table and asked, "Did you catch any of that, Edward?"

Edward looked like nothing so much as a fish, the way his mouth was opening and closing. "That's not possible..." he muttered. "Unless...of course, why not?! She did..."

Shay asked, "Love, do you have any idea what he's saying?"

Aveline shook her head. "Edward, make sense!"

Edward took a deep breath and pointed. "That...is my daughter."

" **What?!** "

"I think."

"How?" Shay asked.

Edward rolled his eyes. "The usual way, of course. I mean, she asked me...she needed a child, and I was one of the few who knew..."

"Start at the beginning," Aveline suggested.

"My friend Mary dressed as a man for most of her life. I knew her secret. She wanted a child in case she got caught and sentenced to hang. So she asked me for my help." He pointed again. "She's the result."

"What makes you think that's a woman?" Shay asked.

"Anne told me Mary bore a girl. I never saw the child, though, because she was taken away. I guess Anne found her, though." He ran a hand through his hair. "Jaysus, I wish _I_ had found her, I wish I'd kept looking. But I had things to do back home. People to kill. I had to provide for Jenny and then there was Haytham and I just...forgot." He added, "Or more like, I didn't want to trouble my new wife with it."

"How can we know if that's her?" asked Shay.

"Find out if Jacob's a woman?" suggested Aveline.

"I can't believe how old she is!" Edward said, troubled. "It's really been that long?"

"Aye, it has."

"If she knows who her mother is, though, you're in danger, Shay. Mary was an Assassin, and I'm sure Anne would have told her..."

Aveline pushed herself out of the chair and waddled out, returning with Jacob after a minute. "Have you ever heard, Jacob, about women dressing as men to take to the sea?"

"Aye, madame."

Shay asked mildly, "Is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"No, sir."

"Are you a woman?"

Jacob looked up, eyes narrowed. "How did you guess? Nobody's guessed in years."

Aveline waved that off. "I think I know who your father was."

Jacob's hand strayed to his, her sword. "An Assassin. Like my mother, like me."

Shay held out his hand. "Please. I'm not here to fight with you."

"You're a Templar, of course you're here to fight with me."

He pointed to Aveline. "I don't fight with her, and she's an Assassin."

Aveline scoffed. "You fought with me about how many days you could wear your stockings without washing them." She wrinkled her nose. "He thought he was still in New York, not in Nouvelle Orleans."

"Are you on my ship to kill me, Jacob?"

"No. I just wanted to go sail on the _Aquila_. I'm tired of having to join a new crew after every time I kill a target."

Shay shrugged. "Then, let's do that. You work on my ship like any other sailor, we go to Davenport Homestead, you join Connor's crew, and you and I will be quits."

She looked at him suspiciously. "You said you knew kin of mine."

Aveline smirked. "You'll meet them soon enough, your sister and your nephew."

"And what would they want to do with me?"

"They're Assassins, to begin with."


	24. Chapter 24: 1760

Ratonhnhake:ton managed to grasp the book in his chubby fingers and stealthily removed it from his mother's blankets. Having secured his prize, he made for his hiding place, two trees twisted together into a sort of half a room. Once there, he opened the book, his eyes roaming the strange markings.

"You're holding it upside down," an English voice said from behind him, gently. Ratonhnhake:ton quickly turned the book around, then stared at the white man who had appeared out of nowhere. He looked rumpled, wearing a long, loose shirt and nothing else, not even shoes or stockings, and his dark brown hair was unbound. He was leaning to one side, looking pained.

"Are you well?" Ratonhnhake:ton asked carefully.

The man felt his side, gingerly. "No, I don't believe I am. But come, let's not talk about it. Can you read, child?"

"No. Can you?"

"Yes... would you like to learn?"

The boy nodded. "My father wrote this. I want to read it."

The man looked at him, nodded, and sat beside him, picking up a stray stick and brushing away leaves from the ground. "What is your name?" After completely failing at both Ratonhnhake:ton's name and his mother's, he asked, "Well, what is your father's name, then? That one I should be able to say."

"Haytham Kenway," the boy said carefully, and the man nodded as if that was only to be expected.

"Very well. Let's start there."

* * *

Haytham didn't know how many times he visited his son in the little hollow underneath the twisted trees, but before long, his son was able to make his way slowly through some of the journal entries. He also didn't know what he himself did between visits. He had vague, feverish impressions of his sister caring for him, and his friend Holden. He almost thought his father sat at his bedside, sometimes, and once he was certain he felt Connor holding his hand, how foolish. His son could not be older than a year or two (if he knew what the date was he could guess it to within a month). In fact, he was surely imagining the boy as a four-year-old, working the much-scratched dirt in his little hideout as he practiced his letters.

No, but he forgot that he could see the future and the past, his son claiming to have killed him, his father before he became an Assassin. And it seems so unlikely that he laughs at himself, and the laugh turns into a painful cough, and Jenny runs to him, and he's back in the longhouse with his son whose name he can't say.

Only this time, Ziio catches him with the book, and she sends him to play with his friends. They played hide and seek, and Haytham proudly watched as his son's eyes flashed gold. He could already use his Eagle Vision, and it helped him find his friends handily, the fat boy and the girl and the twins (something nagged at Haytham about those twins, they reminded him of someone, especially the one with those icy blue eyes).

And then Haytham watched his son hide, and-

 _And what were three Templars doing in the forest?_

Haytham had expressly told them in no uncertain terms to stay away from the village and the cave. How dare Lee, Johnson, and Hickey defy him?

 _How dare they hit a child?_

Haytham was livid, watching Lee choke his son, hearing the crack of a rifle butt on the boy's head, watching him stagger. This wouldn't do, not at all, and there was only one thing he as a visitor could do-

Possibly his son's head was the only place more confusing than his own, just now. His eyes didn't seem to be registering things at the same time, leaving him with strange afterimages, blurred and shaky. His balance was offset, and his foot didn't quite move correctly.

Worst of all, when Haytham had jumped into the boy's body to dodge the second swing of the musket, Ratonhnhake:ton didn't leave.

 _He knew his son's name, his real name, his mother's name too, such glorious names and he could have screamed them from rooftops in jubilation, they were family and now he knew their true names_

He didn't know if it was his son's age, his stubbornness, or just because of his severe head injury, but they were both crammed into the small body.

 _Rake:ni,_ and Haytham knew it meant Father, recognition and plea in one word.

His son couldn't walk right. Not now, not on his own. But Haytham didn't know the way home. So, limping, they worked it out, stumbling towards the

 _fire_

and Haytham froze, because _his father was dead_ and Ratonhnhake:ton tried to run because _his mother was dying_ and they tripped over their grief and fear _the smell he'd never forget the smell_ and ran towards mother _father_ and _the house fell in it always falls in_

Haytham saw her, for the first time since, and Ratonhnhake:ton saw her, for the last time, and if only Haytham had been there in person he could have, would have pulled the beam from her legs. But even the beautiful synchrony of their desperation could not flesh out their scrawny arms or strengthen their narrow shoulders and she was saying goodbye, she was saying _I love you_ and those words had never come to Haytham across her lips, in any language.

If he'd thought, he would have thought he'd be jealous, but it was right and good that the love they'd shared was eclipsed by love for the child they'd made.

Strong arms carried them away from the burning longhouse, carried them to safety, and they coughed and coughed, sooty phlegm coming from Haytham's son's lips, and his head pounding with every paroxysm. Ratonhnhake:ton, exhausted, eventually passed out, and Haytham was alone in his body.

Village elders, and an old woman who looked so much like Ziio that she must have been her mother, kept urging the boy to sleep, but Haytham remained stubbornly awake. He'd seen more than one man die in his sleep after a head injury, and his son was not going to be one of them.

Night came, and yet he remained. Near midnight, he was almost dozing off when he felt the tingle of visiting-strange, that, since he was visiting himself, but he supposed that whoever was occupying a body at the time would pick it up-and looked up into his own father's face, unable to resist an involuntary sob.

"Connor," Edward murmured, worried. "Connor, it's your grandfather. I-"

"Not Ratonhnhake:ton," Haytham mumbled.

"Who, then?"

"Haytham."

And Edward seized his small body in his arms, and Haytham broke down in tears, sobbing out the story that wasn't his to tell. And for a moment, it was _right_ again: he was small, his father was hugging him tightly, and he could cry on his shoulder about the pain and the fear and the grief. The words dwindled, and Haytham slipped off to sleep, held by his father one last time, only vaguely aware of his son's consciousness beneath the surface.

Edward tucked his grandson's thin frame in more securely, wrapping the blankets around the feverish boy and wiping away his tears. Towards dawn, the dark lashes fluttered open, and Edward was pretty sure that his grandson was alone in his body.

Ratonhnhake:ton flinched, seeing an unknown white man. "Who are you?"

"Edward. ...A visitor, like your father."

"Nobody can see you but me?"

"That's right." Edward went to tuck a lock of hair behind his grandson's ear, but stopped when the boy flinched again.

"I don't want visitors. Especially not _him._ "

"I think your father saved your life," Edward chided.

"He didn't save my mother."

"He couldn't."

"I don't want visitors." Ratonhnhake:ton was insistent and remained so, turning a deaf ear to Edward until, frustrated, he vanished, back to his own time, worried for his grandson.

Edward sat at his desk for a long time, deep in thought, until he heard a piping voice in the back hallway, and went to investigate. Little Haytham was playing with his toy soldiers, and Edward scooped him up into his arms despite his protests. "Father!" he squealed, planting kisses on Edward's cheeks.

"I love you, Haytham," Edward whispered, nearly crushing his son in a hug. "You'll always be my little boy."


	25. Chapter 25: 1718

Edward was perched on one of Nassau's rickety roofs, waiting for Mary to finish killing the Templar inside, when he realized he was being visited. It was the man in the hat, who wouldn't tell Edward his name.

"Ahoy, Hat Man," he whispered. "If you'd like, I could use a little assistance watching for these guards."

"Indeed," the other man said, crouching beside him. Long minutes passed in silence, and just as Edward was about to try to pry some personal details out of his mystery visitor, Mary climbed out of a window and jumped into a tree.

"Didn't quite go as planned, Kenway," she warned, pitching her high-heeled sandals into a stream nearby as Edward and the visitor followed her into the tree. He noticed his visitor had some trouble with the tree branch-not as much as Altair had with water, though. Mary ripped most of her skirt off as guards began to surround the tree, and held the balled-up fabric in one hand. "Ready?"

Edward had to force himself to stop staring at her thighs (the hat man cleared his throat loudly) and picked a likely target to leap down on. "Your feminine charms not charming enough?"

Mary threw the flimsy cloth on a guard, and while he was trying to pull it out of his face, she assassinated him from the tree. And then she was in the thick of it, whirling from one to another, blades flashing silver and red. "Not feminine enough, Ah think."

"Perhaps they saw her hidden blades," the hat man muttered as Edward killed one with his own blades, and drew his swords for the rest.

It was brutal, and Edward and Mary were both drenched in blood by the time they'd dispatched them all. "Could have stood to have Ezio or Altair help us out," she said pointedly as they took off for a small house she maintained in town.

"Afraid all you've got today is Edward Kenway and the hat man."

"The hat man?"

"Won't tell me his name," Edward explained, feeling a little defensive. "Carries a hidden blade, but I don't think he's one of you lot, somehow."

The man in question laughed. "Hardly."

"Just what the world needs, more impostor Assassins," Mary grumbled. "Can't wait to get back in my proper breeches," she added, slapping a drunken pirate who had unwisely seen her legs as an invitation.

Edward followed her, both because he didn't quite remember where her little house was, and because the view was spectacular. "Uh..." he replied intelligently.

"Too much charms for the likes of you, Kenway," she scoffed. "Think Ah'd rather talk to your hat man, or is he as handsy as Ezio?" She opened the door, and practically dove into her masculine clothing. Edward watched a few seconds too long, which earned him a thump on the head from the hat man.

"He's too classy for Nassau, I'll tell you that," Edward said, rubbing the back of his head.

"Then Ah definitely want to meet the classy fool'd hang around with the likes of you."

"What say you, Hat Man? Hop on in." And just like that, he was watching himself lean closer and whisper something in Mary's ear. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then her high cheekbones shaded pink underneath her deep tan.

"Oh. Ah've never gotten a compliment like that before," she murmured through her smile. The hat man tipped his hat, and she bowed, grinning.

"What did he say?" demanded Edward. "What did you say?" His visitor simply smirked, and faded.

Mary laughed. "Can't tell ya," she told him smugly.

"That's it, not again! I won't have anyone else talk to you!"

She just kept laughing. "Weren't nothin' of the sort, Kenway."

"Please!"

"You'll find out in due time."

* * *

Many years later, Haytham Kenway sat in his son's cabin, on his son's ship, reading. And then, his father was sitting on the bed. "I've been thinking, Haytham," Edward began.

"Have you, now?" Haytham asked with a small smile. "I hear it's good exercise."

"What did you tell Kidd-Mary-that day?"

Haytham laid down the book. "I told her my name, Father. My full name."

"But the compliment? What was that?"

Haytham weighed his words for a second. "I told her I would have been proud to call her Mother."

"No wonder she blushed."

"Indeed."

When Edward vanished, Connor entered his cabin. "You were lying to Grandfather."

"There are things he doesn't need to know, son."

"What did you really say to her?"

"That I wished she _had been_ my mother."

"Why?"

"That is a story for another time."


	26. Chapter 26: 1512

Ezio was sitting rather closer to a beautiful red-haired woman than was necessary on a garden bench that size, when Edward popped in. "So, this is the magical Sofia?"

"Sì, Edward. Come! You must meet her! With your extensive appreciation for the fine women of the world, surely you will understand what a pearl I have found."

"Edward?" Sofia asked with a smile. "This is the famous Edward?"

"Famous?" Edward asked, grinning.

"Yes, my love, this is Edward, a man after my own heart, hailing from the barbarous land of England-"

"-Wales-"

"-Wales, I mean. But come, come, Edward, you must speak with my beloved!"

Edward jumped into Ezio's body with a sly smile. So Ezio wanted him to meet his wife? It was about time to take revenge for that debacle with Kidd. "Ahoy there, lass."

She smiled, her eyes alight with humor. "Ezio tells me you're a fearsome pirate. Is this true, or one of his stories like owning the Pantheon?"

"Aye, 'tis true, but never fear, you're as safe with me as with a newborn lamb. In fact..." and he inched closer. "I've a secret to tell you especially. I've been waiting a _long_ time for this."

"Edward, what-" Ezio began, as Edward leaned closer and whispered something in Sofia's ear, making secretive hand gestures through what seemed like a long explanation.

Sofia, her face flaming red, asked Edward a couple of whispered questions, and actually _giggled_. "Are you sure?"

Edward gestured expansively. "Positive. I saw it with my own eyes. That was a strange night, mind you, but I was not very drunk."

She smiled again. "If you've lied to me, Edward, I'll be sure to tell Ezio the blame falls squarely on you. Here we are, trusting you not to steer me wrong about such an important matter."

"Believe me, I haven't," Edward swore, hand on heart.

* * *

Later that night, Ezio discovered that Edward had been paying very close attention to that one courtesan's fingers that night long ago at the Rosa in Fiore. And he was most grateful, if embarrassed, and kind of sore the following morning. But it was definitely worth it.


	27. Chapter 27: 1762

The lightning arcing across the sky would almost have been beautiful, if Shay wasn't in the North Atlantic on a ship made out of wet wood and metal, miles from an icy shore. As it was, he had his hands full trying to keep the Morrigan on its heading for the fort he intended to conquer. Perhaps attacking a fort in a storm was not the most intelligent thought Shay had ever had.

And then there was a naked man sitting on the railing in front of him. He averted his eyes politely, only barely registering that it was Altaïr- _Altaïr_? Naked? Shay hadn't even been sure the man wasn't sewn into his Assassin robes. He cleared his throat and muttered under his breath, "Interrupting something, are we?"

Altaïr, for his part, didn't even bat an eye. "Yes. I was in bed with my wife. It was considerably warmer and drier." He looked warily at the raging sea, then at Shay, as if he didn't quite believe the Templar was competent to get them through the storm without drowning.

"Just below you is my cabin. And help yourself to something to wear, you're turning blue."

The legendary Assassin-okay, maybe Shay was still awed a bit-back-flipped off the railing, landing lightly on his bare feet and opening the door.

Gist heard the creak and, naturally, was alarmed. "Captain? I think your cabin door opened!"

"Not to worry, Gist, it'll probably slam shut in this bloody wind." Altaïr took the hint and slammed the door, and as soon as Shay could get to a safe harbor, he made some excuse about checking the map for water damage (damn it, he'd been saving that excuse for a visit from Aveline) and headed below to check on his visitor.

Altaïr was, predictably, snooping through his papers, and also predictably, had found one of Shay's old Assassin robes. They were rather loose across the shoulders and in the chest, but at least the legendary Mentor wasn't freezing to death. (That reminded Shay, what had happened to his dark Assassin robes?) Altaïr's feet were still bare, though, and Shay offered helpfully, "I've a spare pair of socks, if you like."

"No, thank you. I saw your socks. You need to wash them."

"I do n-hey! What happened to all my things?"

"Your dresser drawers were hanging open, so I closed them. And I hung up all your belts and hats and put your gaudy handkerchiefs in the chest up there." Altaïr was matter-of-fact, as if he commonly cleaned up after Templars. Well, maybe he did. He was married to one, after all.

"Listen, Altaïr, while you're here, I've a question for you."

"I thought you would." Altaïr riffled through papers, unconcerned. "You want to know if you and Aveline have a future together."

"Was I that obvious?" Shay asked sheepishly.

"I've been waiting for this since I saw the two of you in that hut together. Yes, you were that obvious."

"Well, what do you think?"

"I think you're very much in love with her, and she's very much in love with you. You have to reach some kind of accommodation on your beliefs or else there will be discord between you." The Assassin gave him a rare smile. "There's nothing like marrying a woman who's your equal, though. It's an experience I recommend."

"I wasn't even thinking about marriage yet."

"Think about it." He went back to examining Shay's fleet map.

"If you're done, then?"

"Don't you worry that an Assassin is spying on your Templar activities?" Altaïr asked.

"With all due respect, it's been over five hundred years since your time. You didn't even know about these lands."

"I could put them in my Codex."

"That you could," Shay agreed. "Are you going to write, 'In 1759, beware of Templars in New York'?"

"I could," Altaïr retorted, peeved, then sighed. "But I won't. That would lead to- _friction_ among us visitors, for no gain of knowledge or power."

"Much obliged."

"Perhaps we should formally declare a truce."

"Thought you already had."

"I have a truce with Haytham. And an arrangement with Ezio, wherein he keeps his hands off my wife." After a moment, Altaïr added, "And he no longer kisses _my_ hands."

"I've not had a problem with Ezio going after Aveline. But Edward has much to say about his pursuit of his friend Mary."

"Yes, and Connor has actually declared war on him, I understand."

"I never thought, when I heard about the things he'd done, that he could be... like this."

Altaïr smirked. "Did you ever think I'd criticize your housekeeping?"

Shay shook his head. "To be fair, I didn't exactly think I'd end up a Templar, either. I suppose life has a way of jumping out at you and surprising you."

"And, to extend the metaphor, slipping its blade in your ribcage?"

Shay nodded. "Metaphorically, aye."

Altaïr sat on the table, which Shay rather thought he might not have done if he knew the things that happened with the only other Assassin who liked to sit there. "Why _did_ you become a Templar?"

Shay shrugged. "I did... something horrible. One side burned bridges with me. The other side built them."

"Reasonable. Maria left the Templars for much the same cause."

"And being hot for you had nothing to do with it, did it?"

"Aveline's charms aren't swaying _your_ beliefs, are they?"

"Well, no, nor I hers."

"One must accept the lack of control over one's beloved. Perhaps by starting with opposing beliefs from the women we love, we have been given a head start on that realization."

"Or perhaps we just accept that we love stubborn, fearsome women," Shay suggested, grinning.

Altaïr smiled. "That too. Have you ever sparred with her?" Shay shook his head. "Try it. It will bring you closer together. It also gets the blood flowing," he said blandly.

Shay blushed, and muttered, "I'm sure it would." Then, noticing what the legendary Assassin was doing, he called out, "Hey, keep those on! What kind of-"

"I am about to leave," Altaïr explained. "I can feel it. Thank you for the loan of your clothes; I do feel much warmer." After folding the robes back up, he returned them to the chest, and latched it neatly just before he faded, leaving Shay shaking his head.


	28. Chapter 28: 17541715

Haytham was bored beyond belief. It was but a handful of days he'd been on the _Providence_ and he was already nearly out of his mind, even though there was some sort of mutinous plot afoot. He'd written in his journal-he'd sketched in his journal-he'd met all the sailors that would talk to him-he'd taught a couple of them a few new moves with the sword-but mostly, he'd been bored.

So when he found himself on dry (if muggy) land, in an airy and brightly-lit room, he was most grateful for the distraction. And his curiosity was piqued when he realized that he'd dropped in on a Templar initiation. The words used were the old-fashioned and somewhat ridiculous ones that were mostly used in Spain, not the briefer English text that Haytham himself preferred, but this was still infinitely preferable to visiting an Assassin.

There was a man in Assassin robes, to be sure, and Haytham startled as he realized that the Assassin was actually going around and pickpocketing the various Templars. "What the devil do you think you're doing?" he asked in his most frosty tone.

The man in the Assassin robes-so it _was_ him that Haytham was visiting, more's the pity-looked up, and Haytham nearly fell backwards from shock, recognizing his own father. Edward was very, very young, not nearly as scarred as he had been when Haytham was a child. He had a rogueish grin as he held a shushing finger to his lips, and then pickpocketed the last of his-apparently-fellow Templars.

Edward returned to his place around the table, and Haytham cursed whatever Templars were too wrapped up in their grandiose nonsense to notice their pockets being emptied. They went on prattling about the Observatory, and Edward took the time to examine the ring that had been placed on his finger, frowning deeply as he did so.

Haytham seated his hat somewhat forward so it cast his face into deeper shadow, and stealthily stowed his own ring in his pocket. His father seemed displeased by it for whatever reason; no need to cause friction. When at last the Grand Master (it must be Torres, Haytham decided) dismissed them, Edward seemed lost in thought as he walked, not even acknowledging his visitor. What could Haytham say? Rather, what could he say that would be believed?

"So, you are a Templar now?" he asked.

Edward scowled. "I thought it was some bloody little gentlemen's club at first. Believe me, I've nothing to do with these fellows."

That was not entirely the reaction Haytham had hoped for. "But aren't you an Assassin? Surely you must know of the Templars already!"

Edward laughed. "No, mate, I'm just wearing the clothes. Killed one of 'em-he tried to kill me first-and my own shirt was the worse for wear. Apparently he was ready to betray his fellows, so here I am, and I think the world's a better place for the lack of the real Duncan Walpole."

There was another shock for Haytham: to him, a Duncan Walpole was a trick, someone who claimed to join the Templars only to be revealed as the fraud they were.

Someone like Edward Kenway, apparently.

Haytham could feel his childhood dreams vanishing. It was an unnerving feeling, knowing that his father was so infamous. It was also strange to know that he couldn't tell his own father his name. The man had _named_ him, for goodness sake.

Edward stared at Haytham, lost in thought. "Ahoy there, hat man, you have a name?"

Haytham drew himself up and did his best to look affronted. "I do, but I'd rather not share it, if it's all the same to you."

Edward frowned. "It's not all the same to me, how am I supposed to refer to you? I thought it was just the one fellow, but now if there's more of you haunting me, I can't just call you Hat Man."

"I fail to see why not."

"Fine, then, Hat Man." Edward clearly thought he'd made some rhetorical point.

"That's right, erm, Edward Kenway." It was beyond strange to call his father by name.

"That's not fair! How do you know my name without me even telling you?"

Haytham went for his 'inscrutable' face. "I just do."

Edward cursed under his breath and stomped off, dragging Haytham behind him. Apparently this whole 'visiting' thing required maintaining a distance of no more than a few yards. Edward stopped and glared. "You can bugger off now."

"I wish I could," Haytham replied. "Unfortunately, you may not have noticed, but this isn't under my conscious control."

Edward muttered and headed for the docks. Haytham followed, as if he could do otherwise. Surly pirate, fake Templar, impostor Assassin, this was still his father.


	29. Chapter 29: 1720

Mary's out the door before Edward knows how to think again, which means at least she's not a part of the awkward conversation that's about to happen.

"Desmond," Edward says gently, "We're done. You can turn around now."

Desmond is staring fixedly at the corner. "Are you sure? Are everyone's clothes on?"

Edward's got breeches on, but no shirt. "It's all right. You won't see anything."

Desmond turns around, looking deeply uncomfortable. "Look, dude, it's not my business who you want to do, I just want to know who that guy was." He thinks he's got a right to know, given that Edward is his ancestor.

Edward stares at him for a moment, then laughs. "That was Mary, honestly, Desmond."

"Mary." Desmond thinks for a minute. "Your BFF Mary? You're banging your BFF?"

"B...F...F?"

"Best Friend Forever. Like, I thought you two had a bromance only."

Edward tries to make headway through that sentence, gives up. "Uh. Mary was, um, she asked me for help with something."

Desmond stares. "By help, you mean sex?"

Edward nods. "But we're not...I mean, if she wanted...I thought she...you know, I always thought she had someone. She definitely looks well satisfied sometimes. But why would she...? I mean, she needed a man, any man tonight, so why wouldn't she-"

"Unless she's doing another chick," Desmond suggests. Edward stares at him, and Desmond sighs. "Look, clearly you're from a time before gay pride."

"What's that now?"

"Like...men with other men, women with other women. Okay? In my time, it's okay, I mean some people are still assholes about it but it's not illegal or anything except in like Uganda." Desmond runs his hand through his short hair. "I can't believe I'm explaining this to you."

Edward looks a little affronted. "I do know what goes on amongst my crew, you know."

"Right, so, in 2012, that's cool, lots of guys do it, even people who aren't pirates. I was just surprised because...because I thought you liked women."

"I like Mary."

"I got that. Are you guys dating now, or what?"

Edward scoffs. "First she'd have to let everyone know she was a woman. Then she'd have to actually want to be seen with me. Hardly likely."

Desmond looks at him sympathetically. "Well, cheer up. At least you're probably not going to have to kill her."

Edward stares. "Why do I think there's a story there?"

"'Cause there is, but it's not one I wanna tell."

"Yeah?"

"She was apparently a Templar, and apparently that's okay dating material for _everyone but me_ , because this creepy immortal god-thing possessed me and made me kill her." Desmond kicks at the floor, because he's not about to go around breaking Edward's furniture. That would be a dick thing to do.

"Oh."

"Look, uh, enough about my problems. Did you really get a tattoo on your nipple? Didn't that hurt like hell?"

"I was drunk."

"Yeah, I figured."

"Hey." Edward puts a comforting hand on Desmond's shoulder. "I'm sorry about your lass."

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for the comfort, but your hand smells like sex. Not helping."


	30. Chapter 30: 1787

It was a dreary day in January when Shay presented himself, in his fashionable clothes from Versailles, at the address specified in Aveline's letter. A servant opened the door, but Aveline rushed out to him. "Come in, come, come, quickly," she whispered. All he could do was stare at her-so young, still, not even forty, hair still dark, her only wrinkles the laugh lines at the corners of her weary eyes. "Quietly, please," she murmured. "He's asleep, he sleeps so rarely these days."

"Who?" he asked dumbly. This was not how he had expected everything to go.

"Gérald. My husband." She bit her lip, nervously, looking at his face.

"Oh." He gulped. How many times had they-and she never told him-

"Please, Shay, don't be hurt! I am still yours, but you have no understanding what it is to be a woman-and-and-Gérald treats me kindly, he truly loves me and I am fond of him...my father always wanted..." She trailed off, looking-for the first time he had ever seen-unsure.

He took her hand and asked, "Am I permitted to kiss you?"

She nodded, pulling him into an empty parlor and kissing him hungrily, then smiling uncertainly. He returned her smile, and stroked her cheek tenderly. This _was_ his Aveline, under the worry that was wrecking her, inside the ridiculously constraining fancy dress. His hand traveled down her back, but she broke the kiss, looking a little glassy-eyed as she put a finger to his lips. "Listen. There is much of importance to tell you, and not much time.

"When I first married Gérald, we did not want children, and so for years we had none. But then I began to...and you must understand, my father left him the business in his will. If he has no heir, I do not know what will become of the business, which I have run for many years. But because I am a woman, I cannot own it. Who would it be left to?

"I want a child," and she smiled sadly, "and I _need_ a son."

"But surely," Shay began, "you and he are young enough to-"

She shook her head. "Gérald is...ill. And the nature of his illness is that he is...unable to..." She squeezed Shay's hands. "He has a growth, you see...although he would never show anyone but me and his physician. He does not think he will see the summer."

He didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry to hear that. He sounds like a good man."

Aveline lifted Shay's hands in turn, kissing each palm. He couldn't repress a shiver; he loved feeling her lips against his skin. "I know I have no right to ask this of you, just as I have no right to ask this of my husband, but..." She kissed his lips. "Will you allow me to bear your child, and raise it as if it were his? He has...already consented to my plan." Her eyes were large, and tired, and worried, and sad, as they searched his face.

"I...need time," he whispered, shocked.

"I did not ever think you would marry an Assassin," she told him in a rush, "I feared it would come between us, and would sour our love. At arm's length, as it were, our passion remains strong, and neither knows enough of the other's doings to disapprove or interfere..."

"Oh, my Aveline, I would not marry just _any_ Assassin. Only you, my beloved..."

There were tears in her eyes. "Then I have been a fool for some years, afraid to ask for your hand and settling for second best."

"If he loves you almost as much as I do, you're no fool." She kissed him with relief, sagging against him when he drew her into his arms. He knew then that he could never deny her anything.


	31. Chapter 31

Ratonhnhake:ton returns over and over to the two sites, where he saw the memories of his father and of Desmond. Maybe it's silly, but he feels more grounded, more... _himself_ somehow.

"Don't be ridiculous, son," his father tells him, as he sits on his haunches atop the roof. "You've got to go find Washington and take the Apple from him."

Ratonhnhake:ton whines, his ears drooping.

"No," Haytham says firmly. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, get up, and for heaven's sake, be _human_."

This bothers him, once his father has disappeared and he's shimmered back into his own form. How did he not realize...? He flies down, right into a swarm of Bluecoats, and he calls the wolf pack to help him, then slams the earth to rid himself of the last of them.

"Human!" his father calls. "Stay human! You're not a wolf, Connor!"

And so it goes, as everyone he knows continues to die again, all around him. He reaches Washington and, broken, he watches the phantom of his mother stealing Washington's scepter. He feels a tingle demanding attention, sees something out of the corner of his eye-

-but it is just his father, an unreadable expression on his face, his eyes following the same visions. _"Ziio_ ," Haytham murmurs, and Ratonhnhake:ton turns away, unable to bear seeing such pain, regret, wonder, and awe on his father's face. He feels he's intruded on something intensely private.

"Well," Haytham says at last, "you've got your work cut out for you, son." It understates the case so thoroughly that he laughs-or-barks.

Ratonhnhake:ton follows his mother's footsteps, arriving at the apex of the pyramid. Something clamps onto his shoulder, and he starts, before he realizes it's a large eagle, the brown wings and tail splotched here and there with white. _"Good luck, Connor,"_ his father's voice comes from the bird, _"I will help where I can."_ As Ratonhnhake:ton stares, the eagle clicks his beak. _"Don't be ridiculous. Where do you think you got it from, anyway?_ "

And so he throws himself into combat, sometimes noticing his father flying around Washington, distracting him-it seems that the corrupted King can see Haytham, which might usually have troubled Ratonhnhake:ton, but now simply spurs him to fight. And finally, Washington collapses on his throne.

As Ratonhnhake:ton approaches, the King's form changes, demanding in his oldest friend's voice, and his mother's, that he not touch the Apple. He keeps moving forward. The form changes again.

"Shit! Fuck! What the hell!" Desmond bobbles the Apple, transferring it to his left-only-hand. "Dude, what's with your eyes?"

Haytham ruffles his feathers, on Connor's shoulder again. _"What happened to your-oh, it was that precursor relic, wasn't it?"_

"Augh! Haytham! Shit, what's going _on_? You're a _bird_ , Connor's-well, I don't even _know_ , and where the fuck are we?"

"How are you here?" Ratonhnhake:ton asks, and Haytham is relieved to see he's human enough, still.

Desmond lifts the Apple, then adds, "But this place feels _weird_. Like, it's _in_ the Apple."

 _"I know,"_ says Haytham. _"Altaïr said-_ "

Desmond frowns, waves the Apple at him, and Haytham is human again himself. "Ratonhnhake:ton, you have to take it."

"What if I become a mad King as well?"

"You?" Haytham scoffs. "Hardly."

"Haytham's right," Desmond says, his eyes glinting oddly. "You're the best of all of us."

"No, you are," replies Ratonhnhake:ton stubbornly. "Sacrificing yourself to save the world. I aimed no higher than my village."

"Well, I'm not dead, am I?" Desmond asks, flapping his empty sleeve. "Anyway, you and Washington are the only real people in here-Haytham and I are just visiting-you guys made this world and you can unmake it. He won't, so you have to." He holds up the Apple, and Ratonhnhake:ton lays a hand on it.

Some days later, Connor stands on the deck of the Aquila, holding a sack pensively. He considers it a while, then swiftly opens it and takes out the Apple.

"Hi," says Desmond when he appears, waving his empty sleeve.

"If I sink this in the ocean, I will not see you again," Connor tells him, regretfully.

"Sure you will," Desmond assures him. "I just won't see you. Maybe. Anyway, that Apple's crazy." He dismisses it with a flick of his fingers.

"What did it feel like," Connor asks, "to save everybody?"

Desmond thinks for a long moment. "It hurt. A lot. It felt like everything I was giving people, every part of their life that they got because of me, was being cut out of me and given to them. Over and over times seven billion. And my arm..." he frowns at the stump. "It felt like I was holding the sun in my hand, the whole sun. That's why it burned." He adds, "And you know what people are going to do with their lives that they wouldn't live if it weren't for me? They're going to fuck them up. They're going to hurt other people and themselves. They're going to continue wrecking the Earth with their own selfishness. Everything that I gave, all that pain, they're just wasting it." He looks straight into Connor's eyes. "But they're _alive_ , and it's their lives to waste, and that's what matters."

Connor's brow furrows. "Would you do it again if you had a chance?"

Desmond nods. "Of course. That's what you have to do. You understand that, don't you?"

Connor nods slowly. "I do. Farewell, Desmond. You are alive, too, and that matters."

Desmond sighs. "I just wish I wasn't so lonely."

Connor reaches out, and clasps Desmond's forearm, a rare touch that surprises Desmond to no end, and then he replaces the Apple in the sack. Desmond fades out, and Connor ties the bag shut, pitching it over the railing before he can change his mind, ruin the world out of his own loneliness.

He takes the wheel of the Aquila and pilots it back to the silent Homestead.


	32. Chapter 32: 1793

Aveline had found herself in a lot of uncomfortable situations in her life because of Templars; this was no different, although she could at least admit that this one was her own fault as well. For some reason, she and Shay had decided that three small children wasn't enough and they needed a fourth. She couldn't quite remember why she had thought this, but she was sure that Shay's heavily muscled chest had a lot to do with it. And his arms. Oh, his arms. And quite probably his lips-but whatever the reason, here she was, large enough for discomfort.

And Shay, loving husband that he was, had convinced the nanny to take the children out, had run a nice warm bath for her, and had offered to scrub her back. Things had proceeded nicely from there, and he was theoretically in the middle of combing out her hair, although his hands were nowhere near and Aveline wasn't even sure where he had put the comb, not that she cared. As soon as she had put up her hand to pull him closer and deepen their kiss, she found herself cold, wet, and _far from Shay_.

She didn't often curse, but she let fly with a string of them now, in every language she knew. Just when things had been getting good! And she knew from past experience that her current arousal was the biggest obstacle to ending the visit and going back to her bath, to _Shay_.

"I was going to complain about you ruining my papers," Ezio told her, his voice full of gentle laughter, "but it seems you were in the middle of something more important."

"Yes," Aveline groaned, curled up into a shivering ball on the desk. "We had the children out of the house and everything." She heard Ezio's footsteps leave the room, then return, and he gently wrapped a large blanket around her.

"Come along, my friend, the cold is not good for you just now. Sit by the fire and warm up."

She followed him to the fireplace, and he found a comb and finished her hair, chatting with her lightly all the while. Even though he didn't know quite how to handle her hair texture, and she had to explain the purpose of heating up the comb to him, and-the biggest problem-he _wasn't Shay_ , she had to admit it was nice, just to talk of light things, to tell him about her latest missions and her children and the city and the life she had made with Shay. When she was dry, he found more blankets and insisted she take a nap in his armchair, so that when she returned she'd be sitting up in the bath. She protested feebly, but it was a very soft armchair and she'd been on her feet all day chasing little Rory who'd just learned to run and used his new skill at every opportunity. She gave Ezio a grateful hug and settled into the chair with the extra pillows he'd gotten her, drifting off in the pleasant warmth.

When she woke up, the bath was still warm, and Shay was looking at her, concerned. She pulled him close for a kiss and felt even warmer. Maybe it wasn't too late to get back to how she felt before visiting. She certainly felt better rested now.


	33. Chapter 33: 2013

Mardi Gras was the biggest party Desmond had ever seen that wasn't in Times Square, and he was aching from loneliness. He'd promised Aveline they'd go together, but without the ability to visit or be visited, that wasn't going to happen.

He'd already gotten a neckful of beads, eaten pancakes twice and crepes once, and been vomited on, but he felt strangely distant from it all. He ducked into a small, dingy coffee shop and ordered something to get the privilege of sitting at one of the tiny tables.

A noise at the other end of the miniscule shop had him reflexively using his Eagle Vision, and he stopped when he noticed a gold glint out of the corner of his eye. Down on the floor, he pushed aside a chair, ignoring the increasingly angry noises from the barista. He could barely read the glowing engraving on the keystone.

MARDI GRAS 2013  
HERE IN SPIRIT  
DESMOND * AVELINE  
SHAY * HAYTHAM  
CONNOR * EDWARD  
ALTAÏR * EZIO

She'd remembered. And she'd told everyone. And if only he could hear and see them, they'd all be here.

"Excuse me, sir, you have to stop crying on the wall," the barista complained.

"What's this place called?" He meant, _how did that message get on that stone_ , but of course it wasn't visible without Eagle Vision.

The barista sighed. "Grandcor Coffee. Like it says on the sign. We've only been here for hundreds of years."

Desmond sat back, slammed his head on the surprisingly solid table. " _Really?_ " Well, that would explain it. It was like someone had smushed together her last name and Shay's, which come to think of it, they probably had.

Another sigh. "Yes. Can you get up off the floor? Your latte is ready."

"Sure," Desmond mumbled, and cradled the stump of-no, his _arm_ -close as he used his left hand to pull himself up. "Sorry about that. I thought I saw something on the stone."

"Yeah, we get that all the time. Nobody remembers what it says, though."

Desmond tipped heavily, on the off chance that the place had stayed in the family, and let his tears roll into his coffee as he watched the throng of revelers outside.


	34. Chapter 34: 1849-ish

She's sure she must be over a hundred now, and it's been two decades since she laid her husband to rest, but Aveline doesn't count herself a widow. A widow doesn't see her husband, but Aveline's never stopped seeing Shay. He's usually old, like her, and eventually the grief and rage she felt at his death ebbed away-and really, how silly to feel so angry that they were back to visiting, when that was all they had for nearly ten years of her life, thirty of his.

He loves to watch, with her, their children grow from middle-aged to old, although they were both sad the day Rory's arm snapped like a twig and he and Jeanne decided they were well beyond fighting every time they met. And so, the chronic skirmish between Assassin and Templar ended, in their family, at least.

Today, all their children are home in the house where Aveline was born, where she was freed, the house she grew up in, the house she used as a base of operations for her Assassin missions until Gérald converted the warehouse. The corridors and rooms are full of chattering grandchildren and rowdy great-grandchildren. Her eldest son, Philippe, employs the best servants he can find, and the nurse that wheels her out to the garden is the perfect mix of cheerful and concerned, putting her feet up, arranging her parasol-sadly, this one's not a weapon-and taking her pulse.

She's stopped trying to conceal talking to her visitors, even though it worries her children, but she's elderly enough not to care if others think her senile. The nurse listens with half an ear, no doubt wondering who "Ezio" is, or why she keeps laughing. But she's an easy old lady to care for, not a problem like some, and so the nurse gets her situated with water to sip and a lovely view of the flowers, the exact amount of sun to warm her aching bones and shade to keep her cool, and leaves her to Ezio and Edward and anyone else who shows up to keep her company.

Shay stands by her side, like most days, occasionally tucking the blanket back around her legs, but mostly just holding her hand quietly. Two of their great-grandchildren run through, giving her a giggling greeting as they chase each other back into the house. She smiles benevolently down on them and drifts off on the tide of conversation; Edward is attempting to impress Altaïr with tales of punching sharks in the face.

Time passes, and she's not sure how much of it, but the shadows change in her blurred vision. Only her visitors remain crystal clear, proof if any was needed that she doesn't see them with her eyes but with her heart.

"Sing for me, love," she asks Shay, hoarsely. "Please." He clears his throat several times before he starts, not that that helps his voice not creak. But Edward's strong voice chimes in, supporting Shay's. More voices join in-Altaïr could be a pirate on singing alone, if it weren't for all the water; he's ferociously good at singing all the sea shanties Edward and Shay have taught him. Ezio can't carry a tune in a bucket, but he makes up for it with gusto. Haytham is curiously reluctant to sing, but he kind of hums the words. Connor's voice is surprisingly soulful in its depth, and the contrast of Desmond's young voice is heart-rending.

After several tunes, Aveline is tired, so tired, and she closes her eyes and smiles as she leans her cheek into Shay's hand. "Just one more," she begs. "Lowlands Away. My favorite." He obliges, and she revels in the mournful tune.

 _My love she came, dressed all in white_

It seems like-it _was_ -so many years ago, her hurried little wedding to Shay, but she'd not have it any other way. And now their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren fill the house with noise and life.

 _And then I knew my love-_

The singing ends abruptly, seven voices silenced at once as they vanish, and all that's left is one old, still woman sitting in the garden with tears drying on her smiling face.


	35. Chapter 35: 1783

Shay wasn't sure why he hadn't come back to New York right away. He'd've missed the funeral, either way, but somehow he didn't want to go home and find his visitor, his boss, his _friend_ wasn't there. But he realized that he could only go up and down the river for so long before he had to stop in.

He took a circuitous route, checking on all the buildings, the churches and shops he'd renovated. Some of them had burnt down-it was shocking to see the damage the town was just beginning to recover from. He debated whether to go to Fort George or that one church first, and the church won. As he approached, he "heard" faint whispers, and his hackles rose. Who would be stalking him here, now? He looked around with his other sight, and at first didn't see him; but of course he should have realized: a brawny, half-Native man in a huge white hood had no business blending into the crowd on that bench. He'd never met him in person before, but of course he'd seen him a hundred times, visiting.

"Ahoy, Connor." He dropped down on the bench beside the Assassin, and the civilians on either end looked at them nervously and fled.

"What are you doing here?"

Shay pointed at the little graveyard. "Paying my respects. You?"

"The same."

"From across the street?" Connor said nothing. The moment stretched on. "I wanted-" Shay began, but Connor interrupted him.

"I understand now."

"Understand what?"

"What you tried to tell me. I would not listen, but I remember." Connor's stare was intense, and Shay remembered their aborted conversation over the body of Connor's friend.

"It's-"

"I am sorry."

Shay blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Sorry?"

"I have taken your friend from you," Connor explained.

"I've lost friends before."

"By another's hand?" Shay said nothing for several long minutes, and Connor spoke again. "Achilles is dead."

Shay had to swallow twice before he could talk. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Are you?"

"Aye. He was my Mentor once, too, you know." It was a little silly, really, to be choked up over an enemy's death. But Shay could remember the all-consuming grief that had wracked the man after his wife and son had died. He could remember his own joy and determination the day Achilles had accepted him as a novice. He could remember a hundred things about him, all now tinged with regret for-what? Had he secretly wanted to seek out the old Assassin for some kind of explanation or absolution?

"I had always wondered why he did not send me to kill you as well," Connor said carefully.

"Probably because I showed him mercy." The blood on the ice, the blood on his clothes and his face, Achilles clutching his leg and staring up at Haytham with such rage. Shay knew, suddenly, in a moment of perfect clarity, _why_ the old man had renamed Haytham's son after his own: it was an act of war, of theft, of revenge, of resentment. And yet, the grief in Connor's shaking shoulders spoke of fondness and trust between the old man and the boy.

"Yet you tried to kill him, once, through me."

"That was many years ago. For me, anyway. I grew up." If he hadn't tried, then, to kill him, he might have done it in truth in the far north.

They were silent again for some minutes, and Shay found himself thinking back, trying to remember when he was a child, when his father had died. He had some vague recollection; but he knew that everything he had experienced, Connor now felt hot and fresh and twice over, compounded by guilt and regret and emotions Shay didn't think he could even name. "I'm sorry, Connor. For your losses."

Connor laughed, almost. "One by my own hand."

"And who would understand that better than me?" Shay gestured across the street. "Come. Let's go see it then."

"Is it not...inappropriate?"

Shay shook his head. "What's inappropriate is if a man doesn't visit his father's grave. Even if he hated the man." And how many years was it since he'd seen his own father's tiny headstone?

"I did not hate him," Connor surprised him by saying. "I made a mistake. I see that now." He added, after a moment, "Far too late."

Shay nodded. "And that's something I understand for sure." He wondered where Hope was buried, and Liam, and if he'd be allowed to visit their graves. He wondered if Connor would let him come to the Homestead, someday, to lay a feather on Achilles's grave.

"Wait," Connor nearly begged, and Shay was surprised to see the young man's severe limp, the way he favored what seemed to be an injury in his side. He offered his hand to help, but wasn't offended when Connor refused it; he waited for the Assassin to make his own way across the street, and they walked to the grave together.

 **A/N** SERIOUSLY CONNOR HOW DOES NOBODY EVER SEE YOU SITTING WITH THE WHITE GUYS


	36. Chapter 36: 1763

"That's more like it!" Shay crowed, lifting up the little Templar artifact, only to hear guffawing behind him.

"Do you always congratulate yourself on finding things?" Aveline asked. "It seems a simple matter of understanding a map."

"Aye, and with no map I've now found the prettiest Assassin ever to walk this Earth," he told her with a smile, tucking the artifact in his pocket. "Certainly should be permitted to congratulate someone for that."

"You could congratulate the Assassin in question," she suggested. "Beauty requires hard work, I'll have you know."

"Hard work that's much appreciated," he assured her, taking her in his arms as she reached up to meet his lips with hers.

"As I appreciate your hard work," she murmured, one hand reaching down for his trousers and worming in past his belt.

"Wait-hey-your hand is really cold!" he practically yelped, and she smiled and pressed her body to his. "And you're definitely not dressed for this weather." He felt very protective of her exposed cleavage, and her impractical little shoes were already full of snow.

Haytham walked up at just that moment; he'd been standing in a thicket of trees nearby for the past couple of minutes. "Oh, please, can't the two of you wait until you can get to an inn?"

"Haytham, you have no idea how long it's been since I've seen him."

"Judging by your reaction, at least a century."

"Where are we?" she asked, "somewhere in Acadia?"

"Aye, and it's bitterly cold," Shay told her, taking her in his arms and kissing her.

"Then perhaps you should, ah, what was it? Find out about my presence here and rent us a room?" she suggested. "A room with plenty of warm blankets...and you to warm me up..."

He blushed, then took her by the hand as the three of them walked back to the _Morrigan_. Aveline kept nearly tripping in the ankle-deep snow, and Shay had to steady her more than once. "Gist! We're staying overnight here, tell the men!"

Gist laid a finger alongside his nose and winked knowingly. "Will do. Enjoy your visit with Aveline!"

"I will!" Shay called, grinning.

"I'll stay aboard the ship-" Haytham began, then frowned as Shay walked alone towards the town. "Run along, Aveline."

"I find that I can't," she muttered, annoyed.

"What? Oh...Shay, a word, please," Haytham called.

Shay returned, frowning with confusion. "Aveline? What's going on?"

She pointed to Haytham. "I'm visiting him."

They all stood, staring at each other for a minute. "Oh, absolutely not," Haytham insisted. "I'll not be sharing a room with the two of you. I know what you get up to, I don't need to watch."

Shay began, "We could..." but then trailed off.

"Don't be ridiculous," Aveline said briskly. "We'll rent two rooms, one for Haytham and one for Shay and me. Then I should be able to be close enough."

Finding a room proved to be relatively hard; the only inn was more along the lines of someone's unused bedroom. At least the door locked.

"No," said Haytham. "Two rooms or the deal's off."

"You could sit in the corner with a blanket over your head," Aveline suggested.

"No," he repeated stubbornly.

"Erm, Aveline, love, I don't think I could if he was sitting _right there_ ," Shay added.

"Then Haytham can sit outside the door and wait for us to finish," Aveline tried.

"I'd still be able to _hear_ you, I'm sure," Haytham said with another long-suffering sigh. "But very well. Only call out to me when you do; I'm tired and would like to sleep as soon as it's safe."

"He acts like his eyes would be scalded by the sight of an inch of my skin," she complained to Shay, once they were inside the small room.

"I think he's just prissy."

Aveline looked out the window. "You should open this and close it, as if I were sneaking in through it." It was nice and creaky for what she always called "verisimilitude".

"And now, my lovely lady Aveline, I think I must get you into this bed quick as a wink." Shay pulled her over to the rather narrow and lumpy bed spread with an ample amount of blankets and quilts.

Aveline pretended to gasp. "Oh! And here I thought you were a gentleman. Well, this will make things easier." She pushed him onto the bed and climbed atop him, nimble hands working at his buckles with practiced speed.

"I can hear you!" Haytham hissed from the armchair he'd wrestled into the hallway. "And what do I do if the family asks why I'm here?"

"Tell them the truth, but loudly. Your friend needed some privacy," Aveline told him matter-of-factly as she tore open Shay's jacket.

"Oh, and that won't get us thrown out for immorality," Haytham snapped.

"At least _you'll_ have a place to sleep," Aveline said cheerfully.

"You'd better stay off that trundle bed, that's mine and I don't want it dirtied before I sleep in it," Haytham griped.

"Too late!" Aveline giggled.

"I do hope you're joking," Haytham told her mildly. "If I find that you've desecrated my bed I'll go sleep on the ship."

"Too much talking," Shay complained, and Aveline returned her attention to his amazing hands under her skirt.

Haytham sighed and tried to block out the noise-Shay was trying to keep quiet but Aveline clearly wasn't-to read his book. Yet again, distraction intervened, in the form of another visitor.

"Whoa! What's up? Why are you sitting outside this door?" Desmond asked, nearly losing his balance as he appeared on the floor in front of Haytham's chair.

Haytham sighed. "Shay and Aveline."

"Say no more, dude." Desmond frowned. "Why aren't you in, like, another town by now so you don't have to hear them?"

"Because I'm too kind for my own good."

Desmond stared as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "You're what?"

"I value Shay," he said through gritted teeth. "Therefore, when Aveline visits me, I do foolish things like sit outside a door so that Aveline can be close enough to him to be...close to him."

Desmond nodded. "You're a good wingman."

"Indeed, whatever that means." Just then, Aveline made an unidentifiable noise that probably signified intense pleasure, and Haytham firmly stared at his book.

"Why don't you get your own room?" Desmond suggested. "For both of our sakes."

"I very much wish I could," said Haytham, yawning.

"Dude, you got sexiled when you were tired? Not cool, guys, not cool!"

"Don't make a fuss, Desmond," Haytham insisted.

Desmond banged on the door. "Make it a quickie, you two! Be nice!"

Aveline's voice floated out. "We're done, but he ripped my dress."

Desmond made a face. "Tacky templar!"

Aveline giggled. "Is 'tacky' another word for, what do you say, 'sexy'?"

"You're such a good wingman, Haytham," Desmond told him.

Aveline leaned out the door, eyes alight, Shay's shirt falling off one shoulder, and smiled. "We finished," she said simply. "He's asleep."

Desmond and Haytham waited until they heard the rustling of blankets that meant Aveline was back in the bed, and only then opened the door. "I'll sleep on the floor," Desmond was quick to offer.

Haytham rolled his eyes and marked an imaginary line on the trundle bed. "You may have this half." Aveline chuckled from where she was curled up with Shay.

Desmond nodded. "Fair deal!" He figured if Edward showed up, they could deal with that problem when it happened.


End file.
